


It flows with the blood of my kind

by MiraHerondale



Series: The Blood of Our Kind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Vampires, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Blood, Established Relationship, Human John, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Magic Realism, Parentlock, Rosie Watson - Freeform, Vampire John, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-07-13 12:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16017980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraHerondale/pseuds/MiraHerondale
Summary: After the events of S4, John and Rosie move back to Baker Street. While hiding the fact that he's a vampire from his loved ones, Sherlock discovers the wonders of ordinary family life. Till one night, when he has to choose between John's life and keeping his true nature secret. The answer, of course, is blindingly obvious.





	1. The Rosie Agreement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eragon19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/gifts).



> This is an almost finished work, so I'll try and keep the updates as regular as life allows them to be.  
> Thanks to Ami, for being a lovely and patient beta, and offer me her precious time.
> 
> This is a present for eragon19! Hope you like it!

Since John and Rosie came back to Baker Street, they made an agreement to keep the risk factor as low as possible. They called it “The Rosie Agreement”. John was a father now. A single father, and Rosie was his priority. Sherlock understood this and even joined into the idea. He loved Rosie and accepted that a baby implied certain sacrifices. He would rather take a boring case or drop the criminal chasing at some point altogether, it to the Yard, in favour of remaining unharmed and safe to go back home again and put Rosie to sleep. Both John and Sherlock had the feeling their times of adrenalin highs and running around London were gone. At least, until she was a bit older. What were a few years compared with eternity, anyway? So, so little.

Babies needed so much care. 

It had been easier than Sherlock thought it would be to slide into a more relaxed focus on The Work. Neither of them were in desperate need of a chase or a danger high, John’s leg was doing fine, and he was not bored at all. He supposed all the previous centuries of danger and chasing criminals, and the bright perspective of future ones had helped immensely. 

Sherlock found himself enjoying a more civilian lifestyle, one where he went to the park with Rosie to feed and chase the ducks or to find squirrels while John was working at the clinic. He would sit peacefully reading a book from the shelf while John played with Rosie building with her foam-made construction games and her stuffed animals. He was delighted every time he heard the sweet sound of the child’s giggles and learned how not to be terrified each time she decided to cry, especially at night.

While John was sleeping, it was his self-imposed duty to see for the little girl. Sherlock could do with few or no hours of sleep, while his friend craved the rest. Picking up their little miss and attending her at night was something he also liked more than he thought he would even if the smell of her most basic human needs was pretty uncomfortable due to his  sensitive nose, it was an effective way to know what the fuss was all about. 

He had to admit changing nappies was not his number one favourite activity. 

He was good at it, and managed to keep Rosie properly still and distracted while he cleaned her and removed the offensive cloth, but when the smell hit? It was nauseous, to say the least. He learned to have a trashcan just under the nursery changing station they had arranged so he could roll the dirty nappy up fast and dispose of it efficiently. The cleaning and preparation for the new one were much easier. And Rosie thanked him with some giggles, so it was all fine.

Nightmares were terrible things though, he discovered. 

The first nights after John and Rosie moved in, she had the worst nightmares. He learned to identify them because she was totally agitated and moving restlessly in the cot, making pouts and finally crying inconsolably. He had been desperate to calm her, worried she might feel unsafe in the place that was to be her home from now on. He decided to grab a t-shirt from the washing pile that smelled just like John and threw it over his shoulder before taking the crying baby and held her against his chest, face over the cloth. In a few moments, her heartbeat slowed, her breathing became more regular and finally, with the calm and tiredness bought by tears, she fell asleep again, calm and comfortable. Fearing she might get up or have another nightmare, Sherlock ended up holding her in her room, rocking her softly while she slept, safe and sound. And so he stood, afraid to move too fast, until she woke up hungry and rested, just before her father did. Eventually, Rosie ended up not needing John’s smell to calm down, and Sherlock liked to think the baby had begun to link his own scent with safety and home. It was a pleasant thought that made him feel soft and warm inside. And when everything else failed, playing a soft violin lullaby managed to calm both father and daughter just the same.

John never commented about on his nocturnal doings, but Sherlock knew his friend suspected he was taking care of Rosie at night. No baby in the world went a whole night without crying at this age, no matter how well behaved they were. His gratitude came in the shape of John-made tea in the mornings: a splendid, hot, perfectly sugared cuppa. Even if he didn’t need the food or beverages humans required to be functional, and could go with a pint or two of blood per week, he still enjoyed the taste of both dishes and drinks.  Plus he had a sweet tooth, as did his brother. So the tea John made was by far one of his favourite things in the world.

The cozy and family-like lifestyle they had become appealing, and he found himself comfortable, and Sherlock found himself comfortable, not at all bothered by the calmness or repetitive schedule of their days. Rosie was interesting enough to have him entertained, and the ocasional cases and even John himself did the trick when nothing else did.

And later, they became… more.

It happened on a quiet Friday evening, after John had come back from the clinic. Sherlock had been receiving crossed signals from his friend for the last few weeks. One day he was extremely tactile, resting a hand on Sherlock’s hips while crossing by him in the living area. Another time, John was Standing at his back, close enough for Sherlock to feel the heat of his body against his backbone while he had Rosie on his lap. At first he thought it was a parental thing, a way to mark his territory, so to speak. Perhaps to make sure Rosie knew who her real father was.

But then, there was John’s smell. So intoxicatingly _human_.

Particularly strong with testosterone, dopamine, and oxytocin, it was driving Sherlock crazy. In the past, every time John went on dates he reeked, his blood delightfully singing to him, raising his hunger and his desire, but also his possessive instincts because this was not displayed for Sherlock, but instead for some boring woman. The day of John’s wedding, his smell was stronger than ever. Sherlock had to leave the reception early because it was making him lose control and it was not his place to do anything about it.

But now it was different.

Sherlock had been fairly sure John knew what was doing, marking him with his smell on the back of his neck, on his wrists, on his hips. He had been able to smell other women’s pheromones all over John in the past. But now the only thing he was able to smell was his friend, pure and unadulterated, so utterly delectable his mouth watered. Later, he would discover John had no idea what he was doing to Sherlock. It had been pure instinct. Because John had been trying to seduce _him_.

And obviously, it had worked.

After a lovely dinner at a fancy restaurant and a quiet conversation, they came back home and everything went smoothly. John no longer slept upstairs, but shared Sherlock’s bed, and they started the nursery construction on John’s old bedroom. And for three whole months, they were as happy as they could be.

But oh, it was too good to be true. He should have known.

The case hadn’t been particularly complicated: a locked door murder (which Sherlock loved), poisoned med student in his own room, no safe way to know who did it or where it happened. The Yard had arrived first (obviously) and (luckily) hadn’t messed around too much with the evidence.

Mercury: an old broken thermometer used for the poisoning, dropped into one of the “detox” drinkable mixes the victim took, a bit every day for two weeks. The trigger: harassment. Proximity: the murderer and the victim had shared the dormitory for almost a year.

Unfortunately, the murderer hadn’t left the crime scene.

He was hidden on one of the closets the police (unsurprisingly) hadn’t inspected. When John noticed it and tried to open it carefully to get him out, the suspect hit him with the door and fled, jumping out the window.

They could have gone home when he found the evidence that took them to the pub where they started the chase, as John had suggested when he saw it was already late. As charmed as Molly was by Rosie, she had her own life and could not be taking care of a baby 24/7 that wasn’t hers. Or so his friend had said.

They could have called Lestrade when they saw the murderer go into the abandoned building, and let the police do the dangerous work. 

They could have left the building five minutes earlier, when the suspect ran right to the fire escape.

It had been nearly two years since they made “The Rosie Agreement”.

They should have stayed like that. Safe. At home.

They should have left the chasing to the Yard.

 

* * *

 

The alley was silent and dark when they managed to get down from the building, reeking of human disposals. John was getting down from the last step of the fire scape, his heart racing from the adrenaline boost the chase had provided. His gun was firmly held in his hand, ready to shoot. 

“Where did that fucker go?” he said, scanning the alley.

Sherlock was sniffing the air, trying to find a clear path out of all the various and disgusting smells. 

“Well, there’s not many ways he could have left... He definitely fell over this mound of rubbish.” Sherlock walked to the broken black bags, lifted the skip’s lid, grimacing at the rotten smell before closing it again. He looked around once more. “Let’s call Lestrade. There’s nothing else we can do here.”

John sniffed before securing the gun in the back of his trousers, covering it with the end of his jumper. “ _You_ tell him. I’ll call Molly to tell her we are on the way. “It’s...” he muttered, taking a look at his watch, “quarter past eight. Just in time for Rosie’s night bottle.”

“Good. Think I’m sleeping today.” Sherlock took out his mobile, texted Lestrade about the running suspect and sent their location. “All this chasing after all this weeks of _domestic bliss_ has completely messed up with my…”

“Sherlock.”

Abruptly, the sweet smell of blood filled his nose, spicy with adrenaline, and the hairs on his arms rose.

He turned, eyes sharp when he heard John’s ice-calm voice. He was aware, suddenly, of the beating of two hearts. Stupid, so stupid.

The suspect was behind John, his taller body pressed against his mate’s back. One of his arms was around John’s neck, pressing but not choking. His phone was on the floor, the screen broken and black. 

Where was the smell of blood coming from? It was John’s, no doubt. He would recognise it anywhere. 

The gutural voice of the suspect came from behind John’s body, low and tense. “I’m not going to jail.”

Sherlock tensed, his eyes studying the situation as fast as he could: _Suspect’s right arm ready to stab. Knife, likely found_ _in_ _the trash. Reeking_ _smell_ _. He_ _’d_ _hid in a skip waiting for us to leave but changed his mind._ _A_ _small cut on_ _John’s_ _skin. Could easily pierce the kidney. Better not move. There_ _was_ _no way to take him down without harming John._

Sherlock found John’s eyes, the calmness in his body hid the distress in his eyes. He couldn’t move, there was no way out. He tried to reassure him, but he wasn’t seeing an easy way out. He moved to fast, John died. He moved too slow, John died. 

“Look, this is not a very smart move. Police are already on their way. You don’t want to add another murder to your sentence,” he said, keeping his voice calm. He didn’t move, but raised his arms halfway, showing his empty hands. “Let him go. Drop the knife.”

“Are you nuts, mate? Your friend ‘ere has a bloody gun,” the suspect spat, moving to adjust his grip on John. He looked desperate. Desperate people were not fun. “I’m not giving him a chance.”

“I won’t shoot. Just...” John tried.    

The suspect sneered, pressing harder with the knife, judging by John’s pained expression and the increasing smell of blood. It was becoming harder for Sherlock to stay calm. 

“Shut up, ‘m not talking to you.”

Okay. Another tactic, perhaps. 

“Hurt him, and you won’t even have the chance to see the police”, Sherlock menaced, taking a cautious step forward.

“I’m the one holding the knife, mate.”

“I need no knife, I assure you.”

He smiled tensely, silently judging the press of the knife on John’s back and the movement of the suspect. 

“I know who you are. That detective and his sidekick. Sherlock Holmes.”

“I would say it’s a pleasure, but it really is not.”

Sherlock started to walk very slowly to the left. If he could move fast enough to grab the arm holding the knife, maybe he would give John the chance to free himself. 

So, keep him busy. Let him talk.

“So you’re like, a thing? You two?”

Sherlock snorted. “What does it matter to you what we are?” He didn’t like where this was leading.

“Well, sidekick, let’s see how much your boyfriend loves you.”

Then he was moving, but not fast enough. Not fast enough. 

He heard a muffled scream when the knife sank into John’s back, the smell of blood filling his nostrils till he saw red. Sherlock growled, watching as John kicked the suspect in the ribs, making him lose his feet. And that was when Sherlock grabbed him by the neck, throwing him with uncontrolled strength against the wall on the other side of the dirty alley. 

_Injured mate. Menace. Kill. Destroy. Kill. Kill. KILL._

Gasping, furious, he fought the urge screaming inside of him to go fetch the human scum and shake him like a rag doll till his brains were crushed inside his skull. 

He turned, his nose flared wide open, his look feral. John stumbled, his legs weak, trying to reach the knife still buried deep in his back. 

“John!”

Sherlock ran to catch him as his legs finally gave up. John was coughing now, blood on his lips, but his hands, still firm, grabbed his lover’s arm with surprising strength. While lowering them to the floor, Sherlock tried not to press the knife any further within his body.

“Don’t... take it out. It’ll only make it...,”, John instructed, pain obvious in his voice. 

“I know”, Sherlock growled. Blood started pooling, the ugly winter jumper already dark and damp, and his fangs were trying to come out from the sight and sweet smell. 

He wished he could do something to reduce the blood loss. His saliva would have been more efficient, but that would not do any good for the internal bleeding. 

“I’m calling Mycroft. Stay awake, John. Can you hold my hand?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice still. There was no time for an ambulance. By the smell of it, the knife had pierced the kidney and also a lung. No ambulance would make it in time with injuries that serious. 

He felt John’s warm hand pressing against his knee, and he moved to arrange John until he was lying between his open legs, his side and head resting against his chest in a way that allowed the knife to remain as still as possible, without any external pressure.

“Sherlock.”

“Shhh. It will be fine. Try to stay conscious.”

The pressure on his knee became urgent. 

“Sherlock.”

He quickly dialed Mycroft’s number, but the call was cut off. Then the phone buzzed with an incoming text.

_A car in on its way, brother mine. Try not to destroy the leather. MH_

He looked up and saw, on the corner at the end of the alley, a CCTV camera pointing right at them. Bless controlling brothers with power complexes.

_Thank you. SH_

“I regret... a lot of things,” John said, spitting blood on the floor away from them. Sherlock raised his eyes to look at John’s and discovered they were slightly moist. John pressed harder on his knee, his other hand clutching the collar of Sherlock’s shirt desperately. “But never, _never_ this. Never you. Or Rosie. Our family.”

He was so fierce, Sherlock felt his throat tighten. 

“John, please, I... You’re losing too much blood...”

“You have to take care of Rosie. Promise me, Sherlock. I need you to raise our daughter. Please. Promise me.”

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes itching, and could do nothing else but nod his head in answer. Our daughter. Theirs. Both of them, together. It was the first time John had said that. 

He felt John’s head fall against his chest with a contented sigh, as if he had expected nothing else. 

“Good. Look at you. It’s like your heart isn’t beating at all. Guess I’ve lost too much blood. Or maybe you are an angel after all,” he muttered, a smile on his lips. 

So John was starting to get delirious. Or so Sherlock thought. 

“Hell, I hope there’s a heaven after all. Maybe I can talk my way in. I’d hate to think I won’t see you again.”

Sherlock shook his head, holding John tighter against his own body.

“You say such sweet things. I might have to kiss you,” he teased, throat still tight. 

“Oh really? Please do.”

Sherlock lowered his head to softly press his lips against John’s, tasting the blood on them. It tasted bittersweet with a hint of mint and pepper. It made him extremely hungry. He carefully lapped at his lower lip before John deepened the kiss, holding Sherlock down by the shirt. His mate’s whole mouth tasted like blood (Pierced lung flooding. Not good) and it was a kind of hellish heaven for him. 

He pulled back firmly but with care, feeling his fangs out and ready. The venom glands were swollen, awaiting release. So he moved down, caressing John’s neck with his lips as he had done hundreds of times already when they were in bed. He took a deep breath, smelling the blood and the perfume of John’s skin, and caressed one sharp  point over the spot where neck meets shoulder, numbing it with saliva. 

A quick peek back to the opening of the alley allowed him to see a black car blocking the way including any view people could have had of them from the street. The door was open and Anthea was outside, waiting with her phone in her hands. 

Mycroft’s timing was impeccable, that much was true. 

“I love you,” he muttered against John’s skin. 

Then he buried his teeth into John’s skin.

Sherlock felt the hand clutching the collar of his shirt press harder and heard a soft gasp as John let his head fall to the side, giving him more space for the first sucking bite. 

Feeding wasn’t meant to be a painful process. That’s why his saliva acted so quickly, numbing the area and sealing the bit. It was always easier to feed on willing prey rather than holding them down while feeding. Of course, it was pleasurable for the vampire, too. Not only because of the feeding or the rich taste of blood, but also because of the intimacy of the act and the stimuli that worked to activate the venom glands. 

He gave a couple of final sucks (cautious of the blood escaping through the wound), and right before John was about to pass out, he injected the venom, staying still to ensure it circulated throughout John’s body. 

It felt a bit like an orgasm, letting go this way. The swollen tissue behind his fangs was finally at rest, the ache in his teeth stopped, yet shivers ran down his body. He felt suddenly numb, before pulling back and lapping carefully at the teeth marks on John’s neck. His saliva sealing the bite slowly but efficiently, cleaning away any bacteria and helping the blood coagulate.

When he rose, John’s eyes were closed, a peaceful expression on his face, his lips a bit parted. His breathing was slow and steady, his heartbeat a too-soft drumming inside his chest. 

“John.”

Sherlock called his name softly before raising his hand and biting his own wrist, opening the veins and letting the blood flow. He moved his arm so that his opened wrist lay against John’s lips. 

“John, drink. I need you to drink,” he said, speaking softly and slowly, just as he did when Rosie was awakening. 

He had heard of cases where the change couldn’t be finished because the intended was too weak or the blood of the vampire trying the change could fail. But Sherlock’s blood was strong enough for a good, safe change. He wasn’t worried about that. He was worried John was too far gone to complete the process by swallowing his blood. Without it, John’s body would remain in a numb state untill he inevitably died, starving and floating in a limbo of nothingness. 

“Please. Then you can rest.”

“Mmmngh... S’lock.”

“Just swallow. I promise everything will be alright after this. I’ll take care of you.” 

Sherlock could feel his tears choking him. He had wanted John to become a vampire, too, but not like this. When he thought of the future, he could not fathom one in which John was not with him. He wanted to share everything eternity had to offer, to discover it with him. He had planned for this moment another way. He had had a completely different idea, another way of telling him.

But there was no way he would let the man he loved die in his arms, or die at all. He couldn’t. Not now, not ever. 

He felt a wave of relief wash over him when he finally felt a light suction on his wrist. His John. His brave, brave soldier.

“That’s it, my love. Take as much as you need,” he murmured, dropping the scarf and holding John as a mother holds her child. The first tentative sucks turned into hungry gulps, drawing out more and more blood. 

“There you are. See? It’s not so bad. Calm down, or you’ll have cramps when you rise,” he advised, when John started sucking gluttonously, blood nearly dripping out of his mouth. 

The force of the suction eventually softened and slowed, blood already coagulating on his wrist, effectively cutting off the flow. “There. That’s good, John. My brave soldier. Now you can rest, love of mine. You’ll feel better now.” 

His voice was velvet soft, his hands softly caressed the body in his arms. With his left, wrist still covered in drying blood that had dripped from the open wound, he swept back a lock of blonde hair from the fringe that had fallen over John’s eyes.

“S’lock.”

John’s eyes were closed, his face turning paler by the minute, his body growing cooler. He held him tightly, rocking softly as if lulling him to sleep. Sherlock knew there wasn’t much left to do but wait. 

“Yes, my love?”

He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Even if he could be certain John was going to be well, there were things that could go wrong during the change. 

And he would still have to see him die. He would be holding him _while_ he died.  

Even after John rose again as a vampire, this would remain an emotional moment he could not avoid. Sherlock had thought he would do this another way, in a situation where John had accepted every step of the process and they were alone. Definitely not in a despicable alley, on a winter night, both of them covered in blood and trash.

“I luv u,” John slurred, his hands losing the strong hold they had on his knee and the collar of his shirt. “S’lock, ‘m cold.”

“I know, John. It’ll be over soon.” Sherlock held John firmly against him as he got to his feet. For the sake of appearances, he usually had to act every time he held John, controlling his real strength in front of other people. But now it was no use. 

He heard a soft humming noise and then nothing but the slowing beat of John’s heart. He swallowed and took the knife out with as much care as he could. Then he threw it away, and walked straight to the black car, not even glancing at the unconscious body of the suspect on the floor, covered in mud and other disgusting elements. Anthea lifted her eyes from her BlackBerry to look at him, awaiting orders. 

“We are going to the manor.”

“Of course, sir.”

She entered the car, taking care to not hit John, and then Sherlock made himself comfortable, carefully holding the body in his arms before undoing his scarf to press John’s wound till his venom sealed it.

“I don’t care how you do it,” he said without looking to the side, his eyes fixed on the rear mirror. There was another black car parked at the end of the block, not too far away. And right behind their car, were the two private security guards Mycroft only bought along when faced with human inconveniences. “I want that bastard ready for when John rises.”

The polite, diplomatic answer beside him was immediate. 

“Of course.”

He heard the engine of the car come to life and pressed his lips together firmly, concentrating on the slowing beat of John’s heart, the coldness overtaking him. 

“You knew this was meant to happen at some point. You wanted this,” Mycroft observed.

“Not like this.” His hands held John tightly, and he wondered if the ache in his heart was real and not just some trick of his mind. “Not this way.”

Silence took over, only the sounds of his mate’s dying heart and the car’s engine left. Not long after,  John’s chest softly convulsed a couple of times, desperately trying to breathe with a flooded lung and no energy. Sherlock held him firmly against his chest, whispering sweet calming things into his ear, hoping it might help. 

A couple of minutes later, the convulsions turned into shivers and then John’s heart, tired and subdued, simply stopped beating.


	2. A place where love conquers all

The bed he put John in was soft, the linens fresh.

Sherlock had held John all the way to the Holmes Manor. Mycroft’s car had become uncomfortably quiet after John’s heart finally gave up and stopped beating. Even though he had been able to smell the changing blood inside of him, holding John while he died had been harder than he thought it would be.

Mycroft, thank god, had been silent all the way. Even when they finally reached their destination, he had only commented that the secure room was ready for John and that he would take care of everything while Sherlock stayed with John. 

“Molly was taking care of Rosie tonight,” Sherlock commented, getting out of the car. 

Mycroft turned to look at him, not moving from his seat.

“I think it’s time I spent some time with my niece, don’t you?” Mycroft’s tone was polite and soft. He had already met Rosie, when John first moved back to Baker Street.

Sherlock hadn’t been sure his brother would know how to handle a baby. It had been centuries since the last time Mycroft had any contact with an infant. John hadn’t seemed very confident either, and left to the kitchen to prepare her night bottles and distract himself. He knew Sherlock’s brother wouldn’t harm her. He was no menace. But he also didn’t want to be there when the inconsolable crying started.

To both Sherlock and John’s surprise, they found Mycroft talking with a very relaxed Rosie sitting in his lap. The baby was holding his tie softly with her hands, looking at him with a mesmerised expression on her sweet face. Mycroft was telling her some kind of story, but not any average children’s story like _Cinderella_ or _Little Red Riding Hood._ He was telling her a story about Queen Victoria, speaking as he would to any adult (if said adult was the only person in the world he could talk like that with).

Taking advantage of the oasis of calm the older Holmes had created for Rosie and seeing she was extremely engaged, John left the bottle on the living rooms table and retreated to the kitchen again.

Sherlock had only seen his brother like that on rare occasions, so it still was fascinating to observe. He could not deny it was quite convenient now.

That memory allowed him to have some peace of mind, knowing Mycroft would take perfect care of Rosie’s wellbeing while he did the same for John, at least till he detected the first hints of change. Even so, he was determined to give Rosie’s night bottle himself, and to put her to sleep. As much as she seemed to like Mycroft, Sherlock was reluctant to alter her habits too drastically.

With a soft sigh, he sat by the foot of John’s bed. He felt uneasy, as he always did in this room. It was too quiet, too closed.

It was necessary though.

This safe room had always been at the Holmes manor, designed for newborns and used for keeping dangerous guests at bay. Mycroft had paid for the land and supervised the house construction himself. Always the posh ass. After all these years, he’d never thought they would need to use it. Sherlock had always been insistent in thinking he needed no one by his side, that he was fine being alone.

Yet he remembered, even from his human days, his mother telling him she hoped someday he found someone that could make him happy.

“It’s good you are fine by yourself, my child. But loneliness can be such a great burden,” she said before they parted. He remembered that day as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He sometimes wished he didn’t. His mother had sounded so sad and resigned.

Maybe, deep inside, some kind of motherly instinct told her that was the last time they would see each other, that she was going to die soon. Sometimes he dreamed he had heeded his brother’s warnings and gone to visit her when she was dying, just to hold her hand.

She had been a good mother. She did not deserve to die alone like that.

“I wish this was different,” he muttered, looking at John’s dead, pale face. Sherlock knew he couldn’t hear him. The strong smell of the enzymes in charge of the change was still intense, and the mouth-watering essence of his blogger’s blood was being suffocated by it. Soon, there would be just a trace of what it once was, only a faint memory of the delicious treasure John had been as a human.

Sherlock was going to miss it so much.

Deep inside, he knew John would be just fine. The rate of success for human-to-vampire changing was extremely high, especially with vampires who’s enzymes had never been used. Like his. Maybe it was just the anticipation of John’s reaction upon awakening or that he was still altered after seeing him die. Regardless, the feeling in his gut was not leaving him. Not even knowing Mycroft would take care of Rosie helped.

“I wish I had told you sooner. Maybe you would have left me afterwards and you wouldn’t have died in that alley. You’d be safe with Rosie at some other place. _Alive_.” Sherlock’s hand reached for John’s, unconsciously caressing the veins on the inside with his fingers. “I’m so sorry, John.”

He raised their joined hands to softly kiss the back of John’s, cold and almost rigor mortis hard. He could still feel the callouses on the skin from his years in the army, handling weapons and medical equipment. He was always been comforted by feeling John’s hands. They were so reliable and as steady as the man behind them. Was odd for a vampire, a highly resourceful predator, to feel comforted and safe because of a human. But as strange as it seemed, Sherlock found no other explanation for the peace of mind that descended upon him when John was around, when he held Sherlock at night, arms wrapped around his middle and chin on his nape.

He remembered that first night, when John took the final step and invited him to dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

John came back from the clinic, cheeky and happy. Sherlock was toying with a new, unsuccessful experiment on the kitchen while Rosie had a quiet nap in her cot. So when John closed the apartment door behind him with a smile on his lips and a resolute expression, Sherlock’s eyebrow rose in surprise.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just had the best sexual encounter of your life,” he commented, sounding almost bored. A deep sniff made his fangs tingle inside his mouth. There it was again. John reeked of attraction and seduction pheromones. How predictable. Sherlock dropped the pencil he had been chewing, and followed John as he hung his coat on the hook near the flat’s entrance.

“You’ve made your mind up about something. You always have that look in your eyes when you do. May I ask what is it about?

John smile grew bigger and he started to unbutton his shirt. Apparently he was in such a hurry he couldn’t wait to be in the privacy of the bathroom. He had to go and do it right in front of Sherlock. _Rude_.

“I’m going to have a shower because I’ve been treating flu cases all day and all I want right now is to get clean. But afterwards there’s a date, a nice dinner, and maybe something more. I think that’s a pretty good reason to be happy, don’t you?”

Then John disappeared down the hallway into the bathroom.

Sherlock blinked. _Oh_.

Something ached inside of him. So that was what all the smell was about. Frankly, Sherlock should have expected this. John was a very sexually active man and quite sociable, unlike himself.

It was normal for people to go in search of other partners after the mourning period was over. Sherlock guessed John’s had finally ended, and he supposed he should be happy John was starting to be a healthy human male again, especially after the ordeal of Mary’s death. And even more so because, maybe in the close future, Rosie might get a new mother.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to distract himself with the _Hedera Hibernica_ sample he had under the microscope. It was useless.

All he could think about was John showering. John getting ready for some date with another insipid woman.

John having dinner with her, laughing and sharing stupid, predictable jokes.

John seducing her, working smoothly to encourage her to invite him over for coffee.

John fucking her on the kitchen table, his hands all over the woman’s body.

John coming back to Baker Street the next morning, reeking of sex, stale sweat, come, pheromones, and _her_.

Sherlock trying to avoid any contact with him for twenty four hours at least, to avoid getting any of that smell on himself.

John looking smug and satisfied with life.

Sherlock sighed, defeated, and closed his eyes. He would have to watch afterRosie tonight. He couldn’t let himself sulk just because John went looking for a normal life. There was a baby to take care of now.

Plus, if a woman was necessary to make John happy, so be it.

Human life was so ridiculously short. So he had made up his mind a while ago. He appreciated John enough to step aside and let him have what he needed. Selfishness wouldn’t help.

“How do I look?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the microscope to find John standing in front of him. It took his breath away.

John was wearing a suit Sherlock gave him as a Christmas present. It was the only quality suit he had, tailored and perfectly fitting. The soft grey colour of the fabric looked so perfect on him. It complimented the shade of his blonde hair. A quick sniff confirmed John was using his Adolfo Domingez cologne, sandalwood, pepper, and rosewood were the strongest scents and Sherlock loved it because it matched so well with his own natural smell. It was a shame he was using it for some boring woman, though.

Sherlock realized he was staring too much when John’s smile turned cheeky, and he fought the blush rising on his face.

“Acceptable. I’m glad you appreciated my effort on that suit.” He coughed, trying to gain some composure. “I’ll be taking care of Rosie tonight, I assume.”

“Of course not. Greg said he didn’t mind, and he owes me a favour, anyway.”

Of course.

It was completely stupid, but it hurt to be considered unfit to care for Rosie.

“John, I’m absolutely capable of taking care of your daughter. There’s no need to send her to Graham’s and alter her night habits when I’m available...”

John frowned.

“First of all, he’s _Greg_. Second, of course I know you can take care of her. Don’t be daft. But you can hardly attend to her if you are coming with me, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s brain made a sudden shortcut.

“Why would I...?”

“You better hurry and get ready. I made reservations for nine and I swear it was nearly impossible to get a table in the first place. If it hadn’t been for your brother, we would be waiting for a table till I was using a cane _again_. I hate to think I owe him, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

John’s voice was an echo inside Sherlock’s head. He felt as if a beehive had found its place inside his brain and everything he heard was muffled by his own thoughts. _They_ would be waiting? As in both John and Sherlock? _He_ had to get ready? John couldn’t be asking him on a date, right? That would be... would be... good. But. No. Couldn’t be...

Unless...

All of John’s interactions with him during the last few weeks came to mind, along with his own thoughts about them. There was all of that seemingly random touching, the closeness, the intensity of his smell whenever Sherlock was with Rosie and especially after a case. The soft smiles. He had diagnosed these acts as a friendly possessive warning. Instinctive. A way to remind him what his place in Rosie’s life was.

But now... with this new information... it looked like more. John’s warm steady hands on his back, on his nape, softly caressing his wrists and inside elbow, as if they were casual touches.

Could it be?

“Sherlock?”

He blinked, suddenly aware he had been lost inside his mind palace for too long. He wondered if he had at least remembered to breathe while he was in there.

John was standing right in front of him now. He had turned both Sherlock and the chair, and was looking at him from above, standing between his open legs. So close Sherlock could feel the heat of his body against his own.

“Oh god, I think I broke you. Hey. It’s fine. Whatever you are thinking about, just relax. There’s no need to panic.”

Sherlock blinked again.

“You. Made reservations. For us both.”

“Yes.”

Now he frowned. _Stay grounded. You might be getting this wrong._

“Both of us. You and me. As if on a date. A real, _romantic_ date.”

John’s soft laugh sounded like music. “Not ‘as if’. _On_ a real, romantic date.”

“Why would you want to go on a date with _me_?”

Now it was John’s turn to blink, surprised.

“Well, because we are two people who like each other and like to have fun together?” he ventured, carefully looking at him. His eyes searched Sherlock’s, as if trying to read him. “I didn’t get it wrong, did I?”

John’s hand came up to gently move Sherlock’s fringe away, softly caressing his skin with the tips of his fingers while he did so. Sherlock rested his cheek on John’s hand with a sigh, eyes closed. He allowed himself to press his nose to the warm skin of John’s wrist, taking a deep breath, enjoying the smell he now knew was just for him and him alone.

It was intoxicating, and if his stomach could’ve growled, it would have already. He would’ve loved to close his mouth and pierce John’s skin to have a taste of the ambrosia hiding there. But it was not the time. _Yet_.

“No, you didn’t.”

John smiled, his face softening. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked right at him, trying to master his expression. It wouldn’t do to give all his cards away too soon, would it?

Then John’s eyes dropped to his lips and before he knew it, his friend’s lips were pressed against his. They were as soft as he imagined them to be, tender and full. His eyelids slipped closed as John let out a soft moan and deepened the kiss, tenderly holding Sherlock’s face with his hand, caressing his cheek with his thumb. The tip of John’s tongue slid between Sherlock’s lips and he opened his mouth, allowing the intrusion, and grabbed John’s shirt with his hands, moving him closer.

John’s tongue was firm and soft against his, and tasted like toothpaste and mint. So he was ready for this. Ready for kissing. It made him wonder if John had also gotten ready for any _other_ situations. That thought sent a warm shiver down his spine, the tingle installing itself low in his stomach. He growled when John exhaled over his mouth, lapping at his lower lips for a second before taking it between his teeth and pulling. A sudden wave of pheromones hit Sherlock fully then, and he had to focus on how his hands clutched John’s shirt and nothing else because if he didn’t calm himself, they wouldn’t even get to cross that threshold.

“Now I’m regretting making that reservation. Christ,” John said, breathless. Sherlock could sense his excitement shining out of him like a neon light, flashing with sexual desire. He didn’t need to look down to know John was exhibiting the proudest boner of his life. He smiled.

“You can fuck me on this table later. I would hate to know you made the sacrifice of owing my brother in vain. We _are_ going to that restaurant,” he joked, fascinated to discover he, too, was breathless.

John let out a laugh, dropping a kiss on his lips again, pressing hard before letting go.

“I’m taking your word on it. Now go get ready while I... handle some things.”

Sherlock stood up from the chair, accidentally brushing his leg with John’s trapped erection, and laughed devilishly when he heard him groan.

“I would refrain from masturbating and save it for later. One never knows.”

 

* * *

 

In the taxi they sat close together, legs touching and their hands softly joined over Sherlock’s knee. The driver watched now and then from the rear mirror, checking they weren’t doing anything that could affect his car’s integrity. The truth was they weren’t doing anything besides looking at each other and smiling like infatuated teenagers.

Sherlock had so many things in mind. He wanted to know exactly how long John had been feeling this way. Why hadn’t he spoken sooner? Why now? And was this going to be serious? Because if he only had one night with John, he would treasure it forever. But he needed to know. Just to be ready.

On the other hand, if this was a long term thing, well... he could seize the moment and just let himself go a bit.

When they made it to the restaurant, John paid to the driver before he had the chance to reach for his card, and then slipped out of the car to open Sherlock’s door for him. Surprised by the gentlemanly behaviour displayed by his friend, he took John’s offered hand and walked to the restaurant’s dining room.

Luxurious, expensive, and classy, _Clos Maggiore_ was a very nice place, indeed. It had a floral and lovely Covent Garden atmosphere everywhere. And whoever choose the floral arrangements at the door and the reception area had exquisite taste. Not only were the colours and combinations extremely accurate, but the cacophony of scents was tremendously pleasant, strong, but not invasive, which was quite unusual for a vampire to find, he had to admit. Maybe Mycroft had something to say in the restaurant choice. His brother loved a nice meal in a fancy place like a cow loves grass. It just came with the package, he supposed.

The maître d’s voice was soft and cordial when they got to the entrance of the main salon, a touch of French in his accent. “Good evening, sirs. Do you have reservations?”

John stood right in front of the mahogany lectern and smiled politely.

“Yes, we do. Two under John Watson.”

The maître d’ checked the list and smiled back.

“Of course, gentlemen. Here you are. If you will follow me...”

John’s hand squeezed Sherlock’s for a second before leading the way. The ceiling was covered in white, cold light lamps. They were small, like stars hanging from the intricate structure created by branches full of blooms and white flowers. The room’s illumination was soft, supported by a glass lantern in the centre of the ceiling almost covered by the natural decorations, just enough to avoid direct light to penetrate in the area, and helping create an almost dream-like ambiance.It looked intimate, all tables placed to offer maximum privacy in the small room. There was a stone fireplace, the flames providing both dim light and comfortable heat.

They were guided to a table next to the fireplace at one of the quietest corners, where light was low, shadows were soft, and the candle on the table provided a romantic glow. Christmas decorations were tastefully distributed so they didn’t clash with the rest of the restaurant’s decor. Bits of mistletoe and pine were hung from the top corners of the room and above the fireplace’s corbel.

When they were finally on their own, free to take a look at the menu, Sherlock felt John’s foot push softly against his own and he moved it carefully a bit upwards in answer, before lowering it and leaving it touching John’s.

“Have to admit, the place has its charm,” John observed, taking a quick look at the dishes.

“It does. Guess that’s what happens when you charge high prices for the food and keep your reputation up. Add to that a bit of taste and the presence of mind to find a good interior designer and there you are.”

John laughed and closed the menu, looking at Sherlock in the eye.

“You look brilliant.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

“Don’t I usually?”

“You know what I mean, you cock,” John’s voice was soft, nearly a whisper. Even if they were almost the only ones at the restaurant, he guessed the ambiance required quiet talk. “You look like a fantasy.”

“How cheeky of you, doctor.”

“Not that kind of...” he sighed in defeat, shaking his head with a funny grin. “I think it might be this place. The low light, the flowers everywhere... it’s like we’re in a fairytale.”

“So am I the charming prince or the distressed princess?”

A waiter came to take their orders, and Sherlock just asked to have the same as John. The wine was served, and meanwhile, he studied John’s expression. He looked calm and happy, more relaxed than he had ever seen him. The smell coming from him had steadied during their trip, and now it was just a background element. But the shine in John’s eyes, the almost accelerated beat of his heart every time he looked at Sherlock, was so beautiful to watch.

“I think I might take the knight, but you are no princess in distress. Maybe the mysterious apothecary? Or the wise wizard? I’m not sure.”

“I’d rather be the fearsome pirate who takes no prisoners. Except for one brave knight who had the boldness to try to seduce him.”

Sherlock took a sip of his wine, eyes never leaving John’s. The wine was good, his taste buds singing from the wonderful offering. Just because he was a vampire did not mean he couldn’t enjoy the wonders of human food, even if it was useless for him. He saw how John’s pupils dilated and his heart raced for a minute.

“The brave knight had to try. The fearsome pirate was too good to be true.”

“The fearsome pirate appreciated the gesture and that’s why he took the knight prisoner and didn’t dispatch him on sight.” The wine pooled in his stomach, warm and comforting. “He would rather dispatch him some other ways, and that requires some level of privacy to be honest.”

They both smiled mischievously at each other, fully in tune with the subtext underlying their conversation.

When the first dishes were served, Sherlock got caught up in the delicious smell of a perfectly prepared ratatouille, just as his aunt Marie made it when he was young, so many years ago. Surprised by the quality of the food, he got lost in the taste. His memories of old times, when life was different and easier, were all Sherlock had left.

As they hadn’t been very rich, he had just a few things he cared enough about to keep over the years: some paintings from his mother’s family, his mother’s only necklace, and his father’s hunting knife. The rest had either gone to Mycroft or was lost. He had sometimes tried to cook some of the old recipes he remembered by taste and smell, taking the internet instructions as a starting point. But it didn’t matter how much he tried, or how many different recipes he followed, the food simply wasn’t the same. This restaurant was one of the few places where he had been able to go back to those times again.

“It’s good to see you eating this well. Mycroft told me you would like this place,” John observed, smiling softly at him.

Sherlock was too happy with the food to worry about insulting his nosy brother.

“Well, that’s quite true,” Sherlock said, trying to seize the moment and enjoy the marvellous dish. “It tastes exactly like my aunt’s used to.”

“Your aunt?”

“Yes. Mummy’s older sister. My mother’s family is all French and when I was young we lived with Aunt Marieoutside Paris, in Orsay. She used to act as a nanny when my parents weren’t home and was a teacher in the local school.”

John was quiet, listening to Sherlock as if he had grown another head all of a sudden. Meanwhile, Sherlock was trying to stay as close to truth as he could. He didn't want to lie to John, but he couldn't exactly tell him that had happened centuries ago, right?

“So you are half French?”

“I am. Father traveled a lot. He lived in London, working for a company that commercialised with Paris, and on one of those trips he met my mother.”

“Oh. That’s quite romantic.”

“Not really. He got her pregnant with Eurus before they got married and then left again to go back to London. When he came back, Eurus was almost one year old. He kept writing to my mother telling her he was going to marry her when he got back, and eventually he did. The third time he left, mother was already pregnant with Mycroft. And the next one was me. I never knew a thing about my father until he came back one last time when I was four. He had bought a house in Sussex with the money he had made and wanted us to go with him so we could all live together there. Mother accepted and we all moved to England. My aunt had died a couple of months ago. She had been ill for a long time.”

John arched an eyebrow, toying with his food with his fork.

“You don’t seem very fond of your father.”

Sherlock rested his back on the chair.

“I am actually. He was a nice man. Worked hard, cared for us, and never cheated on mummy, which is actually unusual considering how much time they spent apart. He really loved her. But he was irresponsible getting her pregnant like that knowing he would have to leave. He loved us but he... wasn’t very good with children. At least he tried.”

“That’s all that matters, isn't it?”

Sherlock smiled, taking the last bite of ratatouille just in time for the second dish to arrive, a steak which also smelled like perfection so he went all in.

“This place is wonderful. It was a great idea. Thank you for taking me here.”

“I’m glad you are enjoying it.” John took another sip of his wine, and after taking a good look at Sherlock, he busied himself cutting a piece of his steak. Behind them, in another room annexed to theirs, music began to play. It was a small band with a pianist, two violinists, a cello, and a harp. The music was soft and low enough not to be a bother when talking.

It was easy for Sherlock to turn himself toward a calmer, almost floating state of mind. Between the lure of the excellently played music and the smells and tastes surrounding him, he felt in near ecstasy. So few things had the capacity to shield a vampire from the grating everyday environment, and he was pleased this was one of them. Point for Mycroft.

“Why now?” he dared to ask. John seemed surprised by his question. “Why this? Why take me on a date? Discovered you have feelings for me? Now?”

John swallowed, and Sherlock waited. John looked calm and composed, so there was no reason to panic.

“I... I knew for a long time I had feelings for you.” The confession made something start to twist inside Sherlock’s body, but the soft music helped him remain calm. “I think I knew since the beginning. I did try to ask you on a date. But it wasn't until recently I admitted it to myself.”

_Oh._

“So you really were trying to date me, then? You looked so confused.”

It had always been something in his in the back of Sherlock’s mind, how John had acted during that first conversation at Angelo’s. It looked like flirting, but John’s body language had been contradictory and his retreat fast. As he hadn’t been at his best, Sherlock hadn’t really been that interested in anything, but he had always wondered.

“I was. I thought you were a good looking bloke, and you amazed me with your skills, so I decided to go bombs away and just try. But I was so conflicted that when you rejected me, I didn’t dare press the issue and so I retreated.”

“So you had a conflicted sexuality? Point for me,” Sherlock joked softly.

John smiled. “Conflicted as fuck. When you died, I was grieving so badly. My psychologist was very convinced you and I had been dating because it was taking so long and was so intense. I noticed I wasn’t just grieving you, but all the things that could have been and couldn’t anymore, all of the ‘if I’ and ‘I should have.’ I was so close to knowing, to seeing it clearly. But then I met Mary, and it was comfortable and safe with her. And it was no use worrying about the past anymore.”

Even with the soft music playing and the previous sense of calm, there was something dark and sad in the air between them now. It always was there when they talked about the time Sherlock was away. He looked at John with reassurance and pressed the side of his foot to John’s hoping it would offer some comfort.

John took a deep breath.

“When you came back I was very mad. And I had no wish to revisit those recent discoveries. I wanted to get away from you but at the same time, I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alive and not with me. So I went back to cases with you. At the wedding I started to notice how sad you looked, as sad as I’ve ever seen you. And when you offered yourself to protect Mary from Magnussen, I knew. I knew there was something. I was so glad when the plane came back down with you. And so mad you had overdosed! Yet I still refused to acknowledge anything, even though I was growing tired of Mary and well, you know the rest. What really punched me in the face and made me react was Mary’s video to you. When I found you on that hospital bed with that bastard... I would have killed him. Right there, on the fucking spot. I had nearly lost you again. And then I knew I couldn’t deny it anymore. Not to myself, at least.”

Sherlock remembered all too well how it felt to be asphyxiated and fully convinced of dying, and he could honestly have lived without it. Culverton Smith had created a serum to kill vampires, after all. And his system was nearly flooded with it by the time John came to his rescue.

“Then why didn’t you approach me with your feelings? I would have said yes.”

“I wasn’t sure,” John admitted. “And remember, I had kicked and beaten you badly and that was the main reason I was leaving. I still don’t believe you forgave me for that, by the way.”

“I told you already, John. It is what it is. I caused you emotional trauma. It was an expected response, even if not morally condonable. We both did things we regret, we both are aware it wasn’t normal, good behaviour, and we won’t let history repeat itself. Next topic, please,” he gently dispatched.

“You are a marvel and I don’t deserve you,” John told him softly. His eyes were tender, and his left hand found Sherlock’s, squeezed it gently and intertwined their fingers.

“And the day I knew I had to take my head out of my arse and do something about it all was a couple of weeks ago. You were playing with Rosie in the living room, explaining dinosaurs to her using her stuffed toy. And you were talking to her as if she could totally understand you, you were so tender. I realised that was what I wanted. Forever. To be with you. To have you in my life and Rosie’s. I remember thinking I couldn’t die without at least having tried. So I started with little, casual touches, but you seemed very unresponsive. Then on Monday, Mycroft called me to his place. He gave me a list of highly rated restaurants in the area and told me you would especially like this one. Before I could ask what this was all about, he told me not to be daft and to start doing things as I should. And so here we are.”

Sherlock made a face.

“I profoundly dislike the fact that I apparently owe my brother for this. I propose we delete that knowledge from our minds so we can live in peace again.”

The violins finished the song they were playing and the cello began low, lulling tones before the piano joined in. John laughed, raising his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said, finishing the remains of his wine. Then he toyed with the glass, spinning it slowly between his fingers. “I didn't want to lose more time, to be honest. We’ve been circling around each other long enough, and I... I love you, Sherlock. I’m a little scared because I’ve never felt this way, but it’s the truth.”

If Sherlock’s dead heart had been able to beat again, he knew it would be galloping. John said he loved him! It was something Sherlock had never thought he would hear said to him, and he never thought he would want so much to hear it.

John’s smell grew stronger after that, and not even the lovely music was enough to distract him from it.

“Not even with Mary?”

He needed to know.

“God, no,” John laughed softly. “Not even close.”

 

* * *

 

The dessert was lovely and Sherlock had been high on John’s smell since his declaration. It was hard to control his fangs. He was glad he had had two blood bags that morning and his steak had been pretty undercooked so that helped, too.

After they finished dessert, John insisted on paying for both of them. Sherlock knew John wanted to make a gesture for him, and that he had been saving for this. Which only made his guts twist even more inside of him, desire and affection both terribly mixed.

They held hands waiting for a taxi outside the restaurant’s door, standing as close as they could to each other. The ride to Baker Street was much the same, both sitting close, hands still held tightly, and both whispering softly in the back.

“This was a lovely night. Thank you, John.”

“My pleasure,” he answered, dropping a soft kiss on Sherlock jaw. “I think I could get used to this.”

“Romanticism?”

“Kissing you, idiot.”

“Ah.”

The cabbie seemed very glad when they finally arrived to Baker Street, glad they were taking the situation some other place that wasn’t his back seats. They stood at 221’s door, not wanting the night to end but also wanting it to develop into something more.

With John standing on the top step of the entrance they were face to face, and Sherlock could not prevent himself from kissing him. The flood of hormones in John’s veins was affecting him too much, and the closeness of his warm, blood-filled body wasn’t helping at all. The kiss was passionate, their bodies pressed together, John’s mouth still tasted like wine and caramel. His lips were insistent and hungry, and so were his hands, sliding across Sherlock’s hips to his back. Then they slid south and grabbed a handful of his arse through his trousers. Sherlock moaned when John squeezed it, pulling him tighter against his own hips. He could feel a growing stiffness pressing against his own, and heard John growl when he bucked his hips against it. His voice was low and infused with desire in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock’s nose pressed against John’s carotid, high on the smell of blood and sex emanating from his mate’s skin. “Maybe we should take this inside.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock managed to take out his keys and open the door, pushing John inside. The man grabbed Sherlock’s lapels and held him against the wall next to the stairs, pinning him while he attacked his neck with hungry lips.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked, breathless.

“Gone for the weekend,” John growled against his skin.

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock let out a loud moan when John bit down on his shoulder, fingers keeping him in place. Sherlock felt his legs wobble, John’s teeth inadvertently pressing over the spot meant for mates to exchange blood. It was hard not to rest a hand behind John’s head to keep him there and encourage him to bite.

“Fuck, Sherlock.”

With a mess of limbs, adventurous hands, and a single racing heart, they struggled upstairs, kicking shut flat B’s door and managed to fall on Sherlock’s bed, shoes already off, and jackets almost there. They didn’t even bother with the lights, too busy touching each other. The light coming from the street lamps through the window would have to suffice.

John was sitting on top of him, his hands keeping Sherlock’s arms above his head over the pillows, fingers firmly closed against his wrists. He took advantage of John’s hold to grab the bedhead tightly so he could regain some sort of control.

When John began opening his shirt, kissing every new inch of skin till he finally reached one of his nipples, Sherlock found himself glad he had gotten rid of all of the spy cameras Mycroft had installed in the flat when John moved in. It would be highly embarrassing to find out some of his brother’s minions checked over this.

“John... fuck!”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled inside his skull when he felt teeth close around his other nipple, sucking and licking the trapped skin while busy fingers tugged on his shirt and pulled it free of his trousers.

“You are so sensitive. Fuck, Sherlock. The things I want to do with you.”

His mate’s voice was low and came out nearly as a growl. Sherlock bit his lip, resisting the urge to grab John’s remaining clothes and rip them off. He liked how he looked in them too much.

“Clothes,” he ended up gasping, and it almost sounded like a plea.

“Yes. Christ, yes. Off. Take them off.”

John hurried to unfasten his own trousers and shirt, throwing the latter to some place behind him, and then managed to take off his trousers without leaving his position over Sherlock’s hips.

On the other hand, Sherlock was having difficulty getting rid of his own trousers. He tried to slide them down his butt and ended up having to buck his hips upwards to make some room. That caused his now free erection to press right between John’s covered butt cheeks, making both of them moan. John found himself pressing back down in answer, his spine arching and a hand resting on Sherlock’s chest for leverage.

“Why am I not surprised you’re not wearing pants?” His voice was shaky with laugher and desire, and he undulated his hips, searching more friction. Sherlock nearly shouted, muffling himself by biting hard on his lips till a fang managed to draw blood.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Fucking hell.”

John’s nipples were proudly erect, his skin flushed and feverish. Sherlock could hear the frantic beating of his heart, the musky smell of sex and maleness impregnating the air and collapsing his senses.

Sherlock moved his hands, forgetting his trousers, and grabbed John’s butt, pushing him upwards, closer to his face. John groaned and obeyed, moving himself till his clothed crotch was mere centimetres from Sherlock’s mouth. The vampire sucked in a breath and pressed his face against John, taking a deep sniff. John’s voice made a loud, high-pitched sound, and then Sherlock lapped over the straining curve of his trapped erection.

“Sherlock... you don’t have to...”

“I want to.”

With desire-pooled eyes, the detective willed his fangs away and carefully took the edge of John’s boxers between his teeth and pulled downward, helping himself at bit with his hands.

If a cock could be beautiful, John’s would be the top choice. Proudly raised and pointing toward his belly, it was thick and sturdy. Not especially long, but perfectly adequate. The curve it made was elegant, and Sherlock was sure it would hit all of his sweet spots to the point of making him cry.

Without a second thought, he took the already damp head into his mouth.

The taste was bitter, not particularly charming, but it tasted so deeply of John that he groaned in pleasure. At last. Sherlock might not be able to drink from him, but if this was the closest he could get, he would be happy enough with it.

He heard John cursing above his head, and the sight was a glorious one. His mate was holding onto the headboard, knuckles white, and head down, chin pressed to his chest. His eyes were open and dark, pupils engulfing the iris. He was trembling with restraint, fighting not to move, the glorious muscles of his body tense. Sherlock pressed his hips against his mouth encouragingly, and with a relieved sigh, John moved them slowly toward Sherlock’s face, his cock fucking Sherlock’s mouth softly, in and out.

The vampire relaxed his throat and his fangs, feeling them move upwards to rest inside their sheaths, and took advantage of John being distracted to contort his body enough to finally get rid of his trousers and socks.

“You brilliant... magnificent... beautiful creature...”

Sherlock moaned when he took himself in hand trying to find a bit of relief, nearly jumping when his palm brushed against the head. With all the blood in his body going south, he felt lightheaded and hungry. And John’s smell was like the final ingredient of a drug cocktail. He hadn’t felt this high since he’d stopped diluting his cocaine solution in his blood bags.

He sucked and lapped at John’s head as he pulled away, smelling the increased musky smell just before John cursed loudly and pulled out, taking fast breaths and closing his eyes.

Sherlock was about to ask if he’d done something wrong when the strong smell suddenly diminished, and he realised John had been about to come.

“It’s ok. You can come in my mouth,” he said, thinking that was what might be bothering John.

In response, John groaned.

“No, I... It’s too soon. And I wanted...”

His voice has shaky, strained and interrupted by quick breaths. Sherlock saw pearls of sweat rolling down his neck and pushed John a bit backwards, raising himself enough to be seated. Then he leaned forward so he could lick the sweat from his skin, savouring the salt in it. John shuddered above him, biting his lips. 

The vampire’s hands softly caressed John’s shoulder blades, trying to reduce the tension that had grown in them and drew a trail of kisses along John’s neck and shoulder, paying special attention to the scar tissue from John’s bullet wound. 

“You want me to fuck you?”

His voice was soft, reassuring. He had the feeling this was some kind of milestone for John. He would be extremely surprised if he told Sherlock he had had past sexual encounters with men. Curious kisses and hand jobs maybe, but full intercourse? Not likely.

John moaned at the suggestion, hands frantically grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders. If he had been human, Sherlock was sure John would have left a mark. He felt John’s hips move against his, and he held his mate closer. 

“It’s alright. We’ll go slowly. I’ll stop anytime you want, just say the word.”

Sherlock kissed his temple and laid back against against the pillows, helping John get rid of his boxers while moving to a semi-sitting position himself.  

“You’ll have more control this way. But if you want to change...”

“This is good.”

John moved to make himself comfortable, his erection flagging despite being desperate and needy. Sherlock hissed when he moved as the tip of his erection brushed against the crest of John’s butt. Sherlock moved one hand to grab the tube of lube he had on his night table and when he used the other to find John’s entrance, he heard him clearing his throat. 

“I... I did some arrangements before…”

Sherlock rose raised an eyebrow and gently slid a finger against his hole. He was surprised to discover the muscle relaxed and his finger found wetness before sliding in easily. 

“Ready for everything, Captain Watson. How professional,” he joked, dropping a kiss in the centre of John’s chest. 

The man’s face was bright red, his eyes looking at the ceiling. Sherlock grinned and carefully, slid a second finger inside, easily entering him. He tried moving them in and out slowly a couple of times and heard John holding his breath, his hands clutching Sherlock’s shoulders harder. He hummed and concentrated on curving his fingers just the right way before resuming the movement. 

John’s hips bucked against his hand automatically, and he kept stimulating that spot inside him till John screamed, begging and muttering incomprehensible things. Sherlock was nearly purring with satisfaction. Not only was John a screamer, he was extremely sensitive.

Oh, the married ones had surely heard that.

Sherlock started using a scissoring movement, making sure the muscle was relaxed enough and then he took them out, to John’s great annoyance. 

“Sherlock.”

“Do you want a condom?” He asked, unsure. 

“We’re both clean. I know you take monthly tests and I did one on myself after Mary. Do what you want but if you don’t fuck me right this instant...”

“How bossy. Calm down, Captain. We don’t want blood today, do we?”

“Cock.”

Sherlock opened the lube bottle and dispensed a generous amount of it on his other hand before coating his erection with it, making sure it was enough. He distracted John by trailing kisses along his jaw, and then over his lips. He waited until his mate’s heart returned to a normal pace for someone so excited, and then stopped, looking him in the eye. 

“When you’re ready.”

John nodded his head and slowly lowered himself down onto Sherlock’s cock. The vampire was holding himself in place so John had better leverage to work comfortably and had to muffle a moan when he felt the tip of his head pressing against John’s entrance. John gasped and pressed down harder, and suddenly Sherlock’s cock was sliding inside, the lube smoothing the process. It was fascinating how John’s muscles seemed to suck him in and yet how tight it felt, even if he had double checked John’s readiness first. John’s preparation had been thorough and Sherlock had done almost nothing else besides making sure everything was in place, plus a bit of foreplay. 

Being inside of John was a more intense experience than Sherlock had first thought it would be. He got lost in the possessive instinct that compelled him to mark, to take and claim. Careful not to harm John by applying too much enthusiasm to his thrusts, he tried to match them to the beating of John’s heart. 

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock!” There was pleased surprise in John’s voice and then it broke into a moan. “Fuck, harder. I won’t break, I’m not glass! Fuck me!”

 _Oh, my John. You’ve no idea how breakable you are for me_. 

He growled in answer, deepening his thrusts, trying to get deeper while keeping the angle just right for John. The sounds he made, lost in pleasure and unashamed, were beautiful and did so many things to Sherlock, he knew he needed more. 

He took John’s forgotten erection in one hand, stroking in time with the movement of their hips as the doctor started moving against him, too. John’s answering moan was loudest in that moment, and accompanied a bunch of incomprehensible talk that, Sherlock guessed, was all praise.

He hid his face in John’s neck, pressing his mouth closed, the desire for bitting and mating too intense now, becoming a necessity. He was so concentrated on controlling his fangs (now completely out and itching to bite), that he almost missed the key moment. John’s body was trembling, his muscles tense, and his voice high-pitched and desperate. 

“Sherlock!” He cried, his face contorted in ecstasy. “Sherlock, Sherl...!”

The vampire felt as warm, sticky, viscous come covered his hand, and he kept up the movement of his arm, twisting a bit on the way up to milk the orgasm out of John.

It was the most beautiful sight in the world, seeing the total look of abandon ion his doctor’s face, hearing his heart reach its highest speed before it briefly stopped, and as John entered rapture, resumed frantic beating once more. The French were perfectly accurate when they named the orgasm _le-petite-mort._ An intoxicating fragrance reached its peak, as if it had exploded before levelling out to manageable standards, the strongest of its combined essences being the fresh scent of John’s come.

John fell like dead weight against Sherlock’s chest, and he encircled him with his arms, holding him close while his hips kept moving of their own accord, his body taking control and desperately seeking release. Whether that might be by feeding, by mating, or by more organic ways, he felt as if he was standing on a tight rope at the top of an abyss. There was so very little keeping him from falling and, at the same time, stopping him from reaching his release. Meanwhile, the voice of his instincts kept talking loudly inside his head. His venom glands were swollen and almost painful, needing to be used. 

 _Mate, mate, mate. This is mate, I need to claim. Mate, mate, mate.._.

Coming back from the post coital heaven he was in, John began to answer Sherlock’s desperate thrusting, burying his hands in his hair, massaging the sensitive skin.

“C’mon, Sherlock. You, beautiful, brilliant creature. Come for me. I’ve got you. Come for me.”

With John’s voice whispering lowly in his ear and his muscles contracted in controlled pressure against Sherlock’s cock, the dormant beast inside him awoke and flipped both of them so John was underneath him resting on the pillows. He growled, deep and animalistic, mouth still firmly closed with teeth clenched, and buried his face in John’s armpit, sniffing the spot where his mate’s body odour was most intense. John moaned and made a surprised little sound when Sherlock took both his legs and settled them over his arms, making room so he could thrust more fervently.

The movement of the vampire made both the mattress and the wooden bed creak loudly, the impacts sounding as the bedhead crashed against the wall.

“Mine.” He growled again between clenched teeth, sounding desperate. 

John curved his spine to change the angle, and Sherlock howled as he came, hips spasming against John’s, his body shuddering with the intensity of the wave of orgasm. He felt the bitter taste of his own venom pooling in his mouth and resisted the urge to spit, swallowing instead. He felt his body go limp over John’s and how his mate’s arms cradled him in place, his legs still caught and raised.

Sherlock felt breathless and disoriented, as well as extremely tired and light-headed. The itching in his mouth was dissipating and the raw need to bite and feed was also diluting. All he could perceive was John, John mixed with him, and sex. That was strangely calming, and the beast inside him crawled back to the dark room of his Mind Palace where it came from. 

He noticed his eyes closing while John’s hand petted his hair softly as he muttered quietly and made calming sounds, just like Sherlock had seen him do when Rosie had a nightmare or was restless. 

“God, Sherlock that was brilliant. Exceedingly so.” 

John’s voice was mellow, and Sherlock finally raised his head from his armpit to rest his chin over John’s clavicle, looking at him in the eye. With a sigh, feeling himself going soft, he pulled out as gently as he could, taking a discreet sniff to check for blood or any harm. Calmed when he found nothing, he allowed himself to be lulled to rest by John. 

“We should get cleaned before we end up stuck together for eternity,” John commented. Sherlock growled, making no move to leave the bed or the position he was in, and his mate laughed. 

“You know, I’m kind of flattered. You went very feral there.”

Without energy or blood enough in his system to blush, Sherlock arched an eyebrow. 

“Not that I dislike it. God, no. That was the sexiest and most satisfying sex I’ve had in... well, my life.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a mischievous grin dawning on his face. Slowly, all his brain functions were rebooting themselves. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he said, in a sleepy voice. “As much as I dislike the idea of cleaning up, you are right.”

Sherlock moved to get up, John’s legs still hanging from his arms, and took the forgotten boxers in hand. John made a gesture as if to take them, but Sherlock raised his arm to hold them out of his reach. Defeated, John rested back against the pillows as Sherlock put his legs on his shoulders and bent forward till his face was level with John’s entrance. The tight ring of muscle was dilated and pink, slightly swollen from the abuse. It was shiny with lubricant and come and Sherlock felt something primal roll through his guts at the sight. 

Resisting the urge to lick it clean, he carefully passed the boxers over John, being careful not to overstimulate the sensitive area. Once it looked decent enough, he cleaned himself and then threw it the soiled fabric over his shoulder, not caring where it fell.

“You missed a spot, genius.”

Sherlocks’s eyebrows rose and when he spotted the drops of come on John’s stomach. He smiled.

“My bad.”

He bent again to lick the drops of come clean and heard John moan quietly above him. He kissed his slightly soft tummy and drew a trail of kisses up John’s torso till he reached his lips, swollen from their previously frantic kissing. 

This kiss was slower, calmer, and Sherlock found himself entwining his fingers with John’s, resting both hands beside John’s head on the biggest pillow. John smiled against his lips and pulled away to drop a kiss on the tip of his nose. 

“I love you.”

There it was. Three little words to shake his world to ashes.

“I love you too.”

They both smirked, pleasant looks on both of their faces. Sherlock moved, situating himself in the warm place next to John, still encircled by his arms. He moved his legs till they were also entwined with John’s in a jumble of limbs. Sleep was slowly claiming them both, the tiredness from a long day, high emotions, and post coital joy making its presence known. 

“So this is a long term thing, then?” 

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow to look at John, hopeful. His mate smiled, the soft light coming from the only window in the room made it look like a fantasy. Unreal. 

“As long as you’ll let me.”

Sherlock smiled, unable to hide his happiness, and crawled deeper inside the circle of John’s arms, head resting over his lover’s heart. He kissed the spot where the beat was loudest, and closed his eyes, as calm as he had ever been. 

“I would give you forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Ami for being a wonderful beta!
> 
> Hope you like it!


	3. We, who shall rise over death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite thanks again to Ami, the loveliest beta in the world. She always finds a bit of time for correcting my disasters <3

Having Rosie in his arms was oddly soothing. 

True to his word, Mycroft had gone pick up Rosie and then managed to keep her busy at the library. When Sherlock finally dared to get out of the safe room John was in, he had been greeted by the vision of an already sleepy Rosie on Mycroft’s lap. They were both sitting in the armchair near the lighted fire, and his brother was reading her an old book. It was a collection of old tales and fantasy stories.

“I hope you stayed with the ones appropriate for children.”

Mycroft closed the book carefully, mindful about the dust it might have. Rosie babbled and moved, not very happy that story time was over. Sherlock moved closer, and when the baby caught sight of him, she stretched her little arms his way, tiny hands opening and closing. Behind the pacifier, Rosie was trying to pronounce Sherlock’s name as best as she could. 

“Of course I did. I’m a vampire, not a brute.”

Sherlock took Rosie carefully from Mycroft’s lap, lifting her and pressing her against his chest, easily securing her with one arm. 

“Hello, Watson. Did Mycroft behave while I was gone?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Rosie giggled and patted her open palm against Sherlock’s own cheek multiple times while she babbled. “Oh, is that so? Well, we’ll take care of that next time. Look what I have for you.”

Rosie went into needy baby mode when she saw the just-warmed bottle of formula Sherlock was holding, trying desperately to reach it. Sherlock passed his pinkie through the pacifier’s ring and pulled it out gently. Then, careful not to drop it, he switched it with the bottle. Rosie seemed happy with the exchange, fully concentrated on her dinner. She sucked gluttonously, and he worried if this night bottle had upset her feeding schedule. But with the incident, taking care of John, and having to handle the whole situation, Sherlock had nearly forgotten Rosie was waiting to be fed. 

“There you go. Very well.” Sherlock took her and turned her so she was resting over his chest , belly down, her face over his flannel-covered right shoulder. He gave her soft pats on the back, making sure no air was left where it didn’t belong, and after the standard check time and a couple of burps, Sherlock turned Rosie again, this time settling her in his arms. 

“Here, I think this is yours,” he offered, giving back the pacifier. With a happy and satisfied sound, she took it back and snuggled her face against Sherlock’s chest. Her soft-pink eyelids were already beginning to close.

Pacing around the room and moving with soft lulling motions, Sherlock made sure to stay close enough to the fireplace at all moments. The warmth would help her tired and full little body find rest more easily. It had worked wonders before. 

He saw Mycroft get up and leave the closed book on the auxiliary table next to the armchair before poking the wood on the fire to make sure it kept burning steady and strong. Ten minutes passed while Sherlock began softly humming  a melody he found fitting. It was a Scottish lullaby by Ludwig Schwab, and it had helped John sleep many times in restless nights. 

Apparently it did the same for baby Watson, too.

He listened to her heart, familiar now to the pace it kept,  and  gradually stopped when he noticed she had fallen deeply asleep. 

“I’ll put her on the cot.”

“I can take her.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You?”

Mycroft took out his suit jacket and hung it on a hook. 

“I cancelled all my meetings for tomorrow, so I can take care of her until the situation is stable.”

Sherlock felt tense now, for good reason. This accommodating disposition coming from his brother was strange and foreign. A sharp feeling of protectiveness struck him and he pulled Rosie closer. He still hadn't forgiven him from keeping Eurus a secret, From playing all of them like fools. Deep inside, Sherlock knew Mycroft was only a child when he had to deal with the whole situation and that he had done what he thought was best. But still, it pained him. 

He had talked with John at length about this. John had been the one to tell him Mycroft was worth a chance after all. And Sherlock was trying. He had turned to him at the alley because there was no one else, and again with Rosie because there was no one. But with all of the adrenaline and the hard day he’d had, his protectiveness was over the moon again. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft insisted, and now looked slightly hurt. “John will rise tomorrow, if my estimations are correct. I know you will be here all night watching over him and I assume you would rather keep Rosamund out of the safe room.”

“She’s not going in there,” Sherlock repeated, just to make sure the message was received. 

“All I’m trying to say is that you’ll be busy till John rises, and even more so after he does. Newborns take time, and you can’t handle two babies. Let me do this. Please.”

Sherlock knew Mycroft would die before harming either John or Rosie. He knew how much Sherlock loved them and he had grown fond of them too, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He had proven that at Sherrinford, and he did did again today. Sherlock knew he was just trying to help. 

But he also knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate without some semblance of control over the situation. 

“Keep a baby monitor in your room. I’ll have the other one with us.”

Mycroft relaxed and moved forward to take the baby from Sherlock’s arms, carefully moving her to a similar position in his arms. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Sherlock walked to the fireplace, starting to bank the fire.

“Is the human ready?”

Mycroft made an  sound of  agreement.

“Yes. Wasn’t hard to take him. You managed to break his legs. Poor sod couldn’t even crawl for his life.”

Something animalistic growled in sadistic pleasure hearing that. The scum deserved worse, but broken legs were good enough for now. 

“Do you think John will go on?”, his brother asked, and his voice sounded, tender. 

Sherlock’s throat felt tight. 

“I don’t know”. It was hard. To not know. His brother sighed, walking to the exit. “Thank you.”

Mycroft opened the library’s door, mindful of the sleeping baby and the sounds old wood could make.

“This is what brothers are for.” 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was used to restless nights. Sleep wasn’t as much of a necessity to vampires as it was for humans. They could keep going just fine with a few hours a week, or even less in extreme conditions. Most of the ones he knew slept only for the calm and entertainment of dreams, or just because of the isolation from the world it gave them. He had trained himself to sleep in steady patterns, just a couple of hours a week. After cases, though, he couldn’t help himself. Feeding obstructed his mind, and when he finally earned some blood, his body was so pushed to the limit, busy processing all the blood,  in the end  he fell asleep for hours in just one night. Lately, he found himself oversleeping. 

And with John in his bed, resting wasn’t so unappealing all of a sudden.

It felt surprisingly good to lay down on the mattress and be greeted by the warmth of another body. To feel safe even in the company of other beings in his own lair. Sherlock’s bedroom had always been his safe place, a space free of predators (the few a vampire could have), menaces, or temptations of any kind. It was a place to rest and renew. 

With John changing and the events that triggered it all still fresh in his mind, rest was something far beyond his reach. 

Not that he needed it now, anyways. 

John’s face and body were dead still, not moving or contracting a bit during the night. If he hadn't been able to sense the changes and mutations taking place inside of him, he would be terribly convinced the love of his life was dead. He already missed his heartbeat.

It made him sad to think about all John had lost. There were some things he hadn’t  ever  considered before, but the night had been long enough to guarantee him a deeper inspection. Rosie was a human. And, if she wished to remain human, someday she would eventually die. The thought of it made his chest ache, his dead heart breaking. John would be devastated if that happened, and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated this. He really did. No parent should outlive their children. That was not how life was meant to be. But to forcibly burden the girl with an endless life wasn’t a good choice either. 

He guessed it was a  problem for  another time. 

He thought about John. About what would he do, once he had risen. Worst case scenario, John would try to kill Sherlock, then feed from him and go into blood fever. Sherlock couldn’t allow that to happen. Mycroft would have to put him down for good. Chances could be nothing happened beyond a fight between them. It might not even get physical at all. John would be mad, betrayed, and maybe after he got used to his new condition he could possibly take Rosie and leave, running far away from him. Which meant Sherlock wouldn’t see them ever again. because even if he could find them, and had an eternity to do so, he would respect John’s decision. 

On the other hand, John could refuse to bring the change to completion and just let himself rot until the blood left in him was consumed and his body died, slowly and painfully. 

It was not an end he would like John to have. If he wished to end it, Sherlock would do so himself. Save him the suffering. Putting him to sleep with strong sedatives and beheading him would be much better. It would be faster. His remains would be cremated, and nothing could make him come back ever again.

Mycroft had been beheaded once. It hadn’t been as painful as he thought, he had said. The blade had been sharp and the process quick enough, the cut clean. The anticipation had been worse. And the thirst upon awakening afterwards, nearly hellish.

Sherlock really wished John would accept the change. Even if for completely selfish reasons. 

The sun had barely risen when he sensed a new, slightly  familiar  smell. He moved in his chair, took a deep breath, and tried to locate it. Once he did, he exhaled nervously.

The change was complete, at last. John was coming back.

He felt the same as he did the night he headed to The Landmark to find John nervous, self conscious, and worried. This time, though, he was much more of an adult. He was supposed to know how to handle these things. 

Well, spoiler alert: he didn’t. 

He was scared as fuck, worried this might be the last time he saw or spoke to John at all. That this might well be the end of the new life he cherished so much. That maybe last night had been the last time he ever got to held Rosie. 

There was a desperate intake of breath, as if someone was gasping for air, and Sherlock grimaced. He knew that feeling all too well. 

“John. It’s all fine.” 

The body that had been stone still upon the bed arose with a jump, a storm of sudden movement. He could feel John’s distress in the air between them, and he held up his hands, lowering himself to look less menacing.

“John,” he repeated, softer this time. He watched as John’s face turned to look at him. His eyes were big and open wide. His nostrils flared and his teeth were firmly clasped. There seemed to be a hint of recognition in the scared beast in front of him, so he kept talking.  “It’s me. Sherlock. Everything is fine, I promise.”

John’s body was tense, keeping him poised at the bedhead, firmly pressed against the soundproof walls. He wore a confused expression, as if he were trying to remember where he was and what had happened. Sherlock waited, taking slow steps forward.

“Sherlock...” His voice was sore and raspy, vocal chords worn from the changing process and the stress of a dying body. He was intimately familiar with how John was feeling right now. The day of his change was one of the most clear memories he had. But no one had been there to explain or even help. “This is not... not right. I was... there was a knife... And I... oh, God...”

The anguished expression on John’s face twisted Sherlock’s guts. He finally was close enough to touch him. He didn’t.

“I can’t... The air. Is all wrong... I can’t feel my pulse... Am I dead?”

“Technically.”

“Technically? What’s that supposed to... to mean? Either you’re dead or you’re not!” he screamed. John sounded a bit like a goose, his damaged throat still dry and squawky. “And what are  _ you _ doing here? You shouldn’t be! You shouldn’t be!”

_ Oh, John. _

“John, listen...”

“You were fine, weren’t you? You were fine!”

Trapped in the trauma his mind had suffered because of his violent death, John was struggling to find some reason for his actual situation, and it was so painful for Sherlock to watch him grow more desperate every second. His eyes were getting red, and bloody tears dripped from his eyes, running down his cheeks. Sherlock made an attempt to clean them off to avoid distressing him even further, but John saw the movement and pressed his hand to his cheek.

“Oh, God. Jesus. Oh, Christ.”

The tips of his fingers were covered in blood, his cheeks now painted with red smears. 

“John, listen to me. You must listen now.”

Sherlock took John’s shoulders with his hands, careful but firmly. The man was shaking, obviously in shock.

“I’m not dead. Well I am, but not more dead than yesterday or last month. Do you remember anything before blacking out in the alley?”

The doctor kept his eyes on Sherlock’s, his trembling growing stronger. 

“I got stabbed.”

“Yes, you did. Badly so. You were bleeding out.”

“You held me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock saw reason and memories coming back slowly into his newborn’s mind, the fog of death slowly clearing.

“You tried to help me.”

“I did.”

Both of them remained silent, and Sherlock managed to sit down on the bed. John slowly relaxed, confusion and memories silencing his body’s fight or flight responses. Sherlock took his hands off his shoulders and held his hands instead, allowing John to sit by his side. They were so close they were touching, and Sherlock felt the unfamiliar coldness of the body next to him. No warmth available now. 

John moved his fingers and reached out to touch Sherlock’s veins with one finger, pressing down and frowning when he felt no pulse. He did the same to himself, and then tried with the detective’s carotid.  

“You can even try with my chest, but there’s nothing to find, I’m afraid.”

“This is not possible. Tell me it’s not. Tell me I’m dreaming.” John’s tone was almost begging, and Sherlock felt his dead heart break in pieces, torn apart by John’s words. Perhaps John would ask him to finish him and let him die in peace, after all.

“I wish I could, John.”

His eyes widened and he cursed, passing his hands over his head once, grasping a handful of hair and pulling it.

Sherlock stood there, silently waiting. His eyes felt itchy, but he was too busy trying to memorise John to become distracted by emotions. John’s breathing was hard, harsh loud breaths, as if he was some terrified animal, trying to stay calm. 

Long minutes passed in silence, and then suddenly Sherlock found himself being pressed against John’s body, pushed down onto the bed by the force of a full adult vampire. 

He was lying down on the mattress with John on top of him, hugging him tightly, his body trembling again in violent shakes, face buried in Sherlock’s neck.

“I thought I lost you. I thought I lost you forever.”

He sounded, strangled, as if he was crying, and Sherlock’s eyes pooled, his arms closing around John’s body and pressing him closer. Oh, lord. How had he feared this moment. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He knew his shirt was going to be a mess of blood stains along his collar, but he couldn’t care less. He would happily burn his entire wardrobe if that meant John was staying and not hating him for what he’d done. Sherlock turned his head slightly to press a kiss to the back of John’s head, and then stayed there, closing his eyes and breathing  in  deeply. There were some traces of his own smell, his blood leaving a permanent imprint on John so everyone would know who had been his creator. Yet a hint of John’s smell  also remained , dimmed by the blood, the change hormones, and distress. It was not as soothing as his human smell had been, but it was better than nothing.

They stayed like that, pressed and tangled together for a while, both letting go of their fear and distress, finding peace in the presence of the other. John finally sniffed, rising up over Sherlock, and wiped his bloody face with his ruined sleeve. He took a deep breath and trying to sound collected, he spoke.

“Tell me everything.”

And Sherlock did.

 

* * *

 

 

“Eh, wow. That’s a lot of information there.”

They were sitting on the bed facing each other, legs crossed. John was trying to be open minded about what he’d discovered about his new condition and was trying very hard not to get mad at Sherlock for hiding this from him. He understood, deep inside, why Sherlock had been so worried about it, but even so it still hurt a bit not to have been trusted with something so important. Sherlock had patiently explained everything as well as he could, remembering his own doubts and worries from when he arose. He knew the transition wasn’t going to be easy, and accepting the fact that supernatural beings existed and that they were now part of that, was going to be even worse.

“It is. It gets a bit confusing,” he conceded, softly. Confident John wouldn’t turn him away, he moved to take his left hand and give it a comforting squeeze. John smiled gently and squeezed back in answer, entwining their fingers.

“Do I drink blood now? I don’t feel particularly thirsty,” John mused.

“You’ll get hungrier throughout the day. You just arose, and you had a fair amount of mine before dying. It’s normal.”

He seemed unpleased by this revelation. As if he were expecting otherwise.

“I thought I was just... in control.”

Sherlock laughed softly.

“That’s romantic nonsense. This is not a control matter. It is instinct and survival. You just have to make sure you have regular feedings and that’s about it. Though I have to say newborns tend to get a little bit... feral... the first few days. You’ll do well.”

John shook his head, feeling tired already. The closed room was starting to make him sick.

“Rosie?”

Ah. Of course.

“She’s ok. Mycroft is taking care of her. They are both sleeping in his room.”

John made an approving sound and let his body slump against Sherlock’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He felt the detective’s arms close around him and some of the tension left his muscles.

He was relieved. To think he had been dead, to think he was leaving Rosie to be an orphan, had been painful. He was so relieved he was back. He would stay that way, even if the price was his own soul. John was surprised that what had scared him the most when he realised he was dying, wasn’t dying itself, but leaving Sherlock and Rosie behind. 

“Can I see her?”

He felt Sherlock’s body tense slightly against his.  

“I’m afraid that’s... unadvisable, right now. You should get accustomed to your new body and urges before. Get properly fed, become aware of the changes your body has made.”

Sherlock seemed nervous talking about this, as if it had triggered something else. John had the feeling he wouldn’t like what was to come. It couldn’t all be flower fields, right?

“What is it?”

John was a bit shocked to discover he was able to hear how Sherlock swallowed nervously and how his lungs filled with unnecessary air. It was fascinating and deserved its own experimentation, but there were other matters to attend. 

“You should know this is not a permanent condition. Yet.”

The tension in his body matched the one in his voice, and John pushed himself up to look him in the eye, a hand resting over his chest. Sherlock seemed defeated, as if he was suddenly very old, and all the happiness he saw in his eyes moments before had been drained away. 

“How is this not permanent?”

“We are not sure,” he said, and John knew he was talking about his brother and himself. “We’ve been unable to find a scientific explanation for it. We haven't managed to find one for vampirism, either. There seems to be a  _ ritualistic _ aspect to the proceedings involving risings”, he explained, trying very hard to avoid implying there was magic taking part in it. “If you wish to remain a vampire and take the change to completion, you’ll have to drink from a human before 24 hours have passed after you woke up.”

John frowned.

“Seems easy.”

“John. You’ll have to drink from a human till you  _ kill _ it.”

Oh. So there was that. 

“And the other options are?”

Sherlock sighed, the veins in his long neck becoming more visible, muscles tense as an arrow.

“You can let yourself die. If you don’t drink, then you’ll fall slowly into a sleep-like state. The process might take hours or days. You’ll be thirsty but unable to do anything about it. You’ll drift into nothing till the energy left in your body can’t sustain you, floating in limbo, and then you’ll die. For good, this time. Of course, if you wish not to complete the change, I can offer to sedate you and end the process myself. It would be faster and it would save you the pain of the hunger.” 

John noticed Sherlock looked as if he were going to puke, if such a thing was even possible for a vampire.

“I understand if you choose not to go on. This is something serious, and the decision was made without your consent, which is terrible enough. I would excuse myself and say I did it for you, but I did it for purely selfish reasons. I couldn’t let you die. I didn’t want you to leave me. And I’m sorry for taking such liberties with you like that. I’m deeply sorry. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll support it.”

John blinked, feeling something twist inside of him. How could this incredible man think for one second...? 

He moved quickly this time, rising up and freeing himself from Sherlock’s arms. He saw out of the corner of his eye how Sherlock pressed his lips together, his eyes hardening as the expression on his beautiful face became stony. He knew this as if it were his own face. Downhearted, he arranged himself to sit in front of Sherlock, legs folded beneath him. John moved his hands to grab Sherlock’s face between them, gently and carefully. He rubbed his thumbs over his cheekbones in a caress.

“Hey”, he whispered, looking Sherlock in the eye. There were no tears on Sherlock’s face, just stone cold control. Repressed emotions were burning deep inside him. 

“If you think I’m foolish enough to throw away my chance of spending eternity with you and Rosie, you are sorely mistaken. I would have been glad to have a choice, but I understand why you did this.” 

He saw Sherlock’s lips tremble a bit before he quickly mastered his expression again. His eyes, though, were starting to shine with a glimmer of hope. 

“And Sherlock. I would have done the same if I were you. I would have done the same exact thing. Because I’m a selfish bastard, too. And I refuse to live in a world in which you don’t exist.” 

Sherlock let out a huge breath, moving forward to bury his face in John’s neck, looping his arms around him, pulling him closer. John closed his arms tightly around him and caressed his curls. Then he dropped a kiss to his head, taking a deep sniff of Sherlock’s shampoo. It was wood and lemon, with a hint of tobacco, and all of the scents were so intense he couldn't tell if the tobacco was from hair products or because he’d been smoking. 

“Thank you. I love you. Thank you”, Sherlock mumbled against his skin. He was trembling, his body shaking as if he was crying. John’s shoulder and chest felt dry so he knew that wasn’t the case, but it might as well be. 

Sherlock kept muttering those sentences on repeat for a while, holding on  to John  for dear life, and John holding him back, rocking softly like he sometimes did when Rosie was unsteady. It seemed to be work wonders because  after  a few minutes, Sherlock raised his head and took a look at him before kissing him, lips soft against his. 

The kiss was gentle at first, becoming more urgent as time passed. Sherlock seemed to crave his presence as it was reassuring, and John couldn't deny him. To think about the ordeal the detective had been through just to have him here, alive. He could only imagine. John pressed back until he was straddling Sherlock, who was resting his back against the wall. John groaned and moved his body, searching for a better position, then growled when his hips aligned with Sherlock’s crotch, giving an experimental thrust. 

Sherlock let out a moan, digging his fingers into his back. A part of John’s brain registered the force of those fingers, and he was suddenly aware that Sherlock was strong. Like, stone-shattering strong. He was sure a grip like that would be able to tear through flesh, muscle, and bone without any trouble. It was strange to think about Sherlock that way, when all he remembered of him were soft touches and delicate hands. He had never left a bruise or even a red mark on John. 

But of course, if Sherlock was good at anything, it was self discipline.

“John.”

He wondered how much Sherlock had held back before. And then, with something hot running through his insides, he daydreamed how everything  would  feel now, how intense it would become. Their tongues met and John groaned, swiping across Sherlock’s teeth, sucking on his lower lip. He thrust against him, feeling an interested hardness against him, and then he felt a strange tingle, almost like a pressure in the inside of his mouth near his teeth. John cursed, bothered by it, and hissed.

Sherlock opened his eyes and grabbed his upper arms, holding him firmly, moving John back so he could put some distance between them. He was slightly flushed, his pupils dilated. If he hadn’t known he didn’t need to breathe, he would’ve been offended by his steady respiration. 

“John, wait,” he said, and John found himself pleased as a cat with a mouse when he heard the deep tone coming from his lips, voice rough and low with desire. “We have things to do.”

“We can do them later.”

John growled and tried to move forward to kiss him again, finding he couldn’t move. Sherlock’s grip seemed casual, but John felt as if he was trying to fight with a wall.

“John.”

Sherlock’s tone was soft now, as if he was dealing with a child. “We have lots of things to do and little time to do so. And you need to feed before we can start. You don’t have enough blood in you. Look at yourself.”

John did.

He was pale. Paler than he had ever been. The tan line was still there, his skin looked fine, but it was like looking at a corpse. Looking down, he noticed his groin, as tender and soft as it could be. He gave it a try, moving his hand over it to trigger a reaction, but  nothing happened. He felt a spark of something at the back of his head, but that was all. No visible reaction in sight.

“You are fine,” the vampire clarified, seeing his terrified expression. John tilted his head to look at him and wanted to pout. Sherlock was trying hard not to laugh. 

“This happens. You don’t have enough blood in you, so your body is keeping it for vital support only. More... secondary functions are suspended for now. Most of your blood is working in your brain and motor system.”

Oh. Well, that did make some sense.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it. 

John pouted, horny and bothered. His cock might be uncooperative, but his brain was not.

“I promise we’ll come back to this later,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. A hot shiver run down his spine. “There’s lots of things I want to do with you, John. So many.”

The newborn groaned and heard Sherlock laugh tenderly. 

“If you want to postpone this, you better give me something else to focus on. Because if you don’t...”

“First things first,” Sherlock pecked John’s cheek before jumping from the bed. He took the new set of clothes Mycroft had the tact to provide so John could change out of his bloody jumper and trousers and left it on the bed in front of him. “You need to feed because you’ll get hungrier and because the sooner you finish the transition, the better. You can change later. First feedings are sometimes a bit... messy.”

He winced, as if the inaccurate word pained him, a capital offence.

“Who am I going to drink from? There are humans in here?”

Sherlock helped John get to his feet. The muscles of his body were sore and tense, affected by death and the change, and also because of blood loss. He remembered the feeling. It was like trying to move completely flaccid limbs. Not fun. 

Once John was somehow steady on his own two feet, Sherlock felt more confident leaving him to walk by himself and start to regain control over his body. 

“At the manor? No. Vampires aren’t the only mythical creatures in the world, and certainly not the only ones at this house, either.”

They’d talked about this when Sherlock had first introduced himself as a vampire to John an hour ago. Eurus being a changeling made so much sense. John had no trouble believing at least that part. 

“So you and Mycroft are both vampires by accident, but the mad sister had always been fairy folk? Yeah, sounds like a Holmes,” he had joked. “And, if I think about the timeline, she’s immortal too.”

“Oh, not at all. Fairy folk just age differently. She will die eventually. But if it will be five hundred years from now or less, we have no way of knowing. Mycroft and the medical team at Sherrinford had been keeping track of her development over the centuries trying to establish a ratio. But fairies are tricky beings who can alter their appearance, so we have no conclusions yet in that area.”

That had been a little bit disturbing to hear, John had to admit. He disliked Eurus. He feared her.  Even more than he ever feared Moriarty. The idea of her leaving Sherrinford again was worrisome, more so since he knew how many years she had to plan a second escape. 

“Fairies?” John arched an eyebrow, steadying himself on the chair next to his bed. 

Sherlock grimaced.

“I hope not. I’d rather have a banshee screaming in my ear all day. Fairies are not to be trusted. They can’t lie, but they will find a way to tell a deceiving truth and take advantage of you anytime they feel like it.”

“Guess after all the sister drama Mycroft was more than ready to not mix with a fairy again.”

“Guess so,” Sherlock answered. “He might have a couple of werewolves, though. They make excellent bodyguards.”

John rolled his eyes, flexing and trying to get used to the lightweight sensation he felt, as if he were some kind of boneless creature with way too much strength.

“I’m ready for a sucky suck.”

“John.”

The aforementioned grinned mischievously.

“Suck suck.”

“Are you five years old all of a sudden?” Sherlock seemed outraged.

“Pinchy pinchy, sucky sucky.”

Sherlock groaned.

“Oh my God,” he said, shocked. “Let’s get you to that human before I remember that you are sexually and romantically involved with me. Or I start to think the changing process has left you severely brain damaged.”

John saw him leave the safe room with a wide smile on his lips and made sure to do a slurping sound or two before the door closed again with a heavy metallic thud.

Damn. It was good to be alive.

  
  



	4. Dying to taste this sick warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beabs! I'm back!
> 
> As always, thousand flowers to my lovely beta Ami. You are the best!
> 
> Also, thank you lovelies, for reading and leaving Kudos and your kind words in the comments. Knowing that you like this is the fuel that makes me want to keep going.
> 
> We are so close to the end!

As soon as Sherlock left the safe room, John found himself alone. He couldn’t hear a single thing and was pretty sure nobody could hear him either, no matter how improved the hearing of a vampire could be.

He carefully examined the walls, daring to poke them several times, each time a bit harder than the other. He was almost worried he might damage it. To his surprise, the walls remained in perfect shape, not even a scratch on them. He frowned and took a look around.

The room was mostly empty of anything useful. There was only a small table with a chair and against the wall opposite to the door was the plush King size bed where he had been laying. He saw a pair of hooks on the other side and he needn’t be a soldier to know those were meant to hold a chain. And by the looks of them, it was one hell of a chain.

There was a drain at the centre of the room, the cold concrete floor slightly uneven. John saw, under the fluorescent lights above, that the floor was also a bit shiny, almost plastic-like. Scratching at it confirmed it had been treated with some kind of plastic based transparent paint. He nodded, impressed. Mycroft had thought of everything including the possibility of… fluids being spilled inside and efficiently disposing of them in that case.

John saw there were no windows, so his wish to see where the Manor was or simply to know the time, was useless. Sherlock had mentioned Rosie was sleeping with Mycroft, so he deduced it was still night. But for how much longer, he couldn’t know.

He heard a soft rustling sound, like the movement of sheets coming from somewhere, and he turned his head trying to locate the source. Soon Rosie’s babbling started. It was as if she was right beside him.

The source of it all was the receiving end of a baby speaker. It was on the table near the bed, with lights indicating the incoming sounds flickering softly. The volume was set on low, to his surprise. He was tempted to turn it higher, just to test and make sure he was indeed hearing Rosie, but he refrained. Sherlock had kept it low for a reason. Because it had been Sherlock’s doing, he was sure. Maybe he wanted to keep track of Rosie’s sleep while waiting for John to rise to make sure everything was fine.

A sob came from the monitor and he frowned, almost in distress. He was sure that even if he tried the door would be firmly locked, and not even his new vampire skills would get him out of it. So there was nothing he could do to check on his daughter. John was just starting to feel anxious, the sobbing growing louder, when the sound of moving sheets returned.

“Morning, Watson. You are an early bird.”

The rumbling sound of Mycroft came through the speaker, interlaced with Rosie’s cries. It was strange how John was able to separate all of the sounds, as if he was receiving them individually instead of all together from a single source. Even the interference of the monitor was a different tune.

The voice of the elder Holmes brother was low, and John could tell he had just been woken up, surely by Rosie. He didn’t seem disappointed, though. It was as if he had been expecting it and was actually surprised it took so long.

“Well, let’s check what’s wrong, shall we?” Mycroft asked, and the changing sounds told John he had just lifted her from the cot, or wherever she was sleeping.

“Nappy is fine. And you don’t smell hungry. Was it a nightmare, little Watson?”

Rosie sobbed harder.

“Ah. I see. Excuse my manners. Here, this might help you.”

John heard more clothing being moved, and then nothing else besides Rosie still crying.

Distressed and worried, he concentrated, almost taking the monitor to press it against his ear. Was something else going on he could not hear?

“I know I’m not either of your parents, but I’m the best you have at your disposal right now.”

Then something happened that made John’s heart jolt.

_“DA!”_

It had been clear. Extremely so. Rosie had never done that before. Was she calling for him? For Sherlock? He wanted to cry. She had just managed to say her first meaningful word and neither he nor Sherlock were there to answer it.

“‘Da’ is busy right now. Both of your ‘da’ are. They’ll be here soon, I promise.”

The crying slowly died down and John was amazed to find he could hear a soft drumming, muffled by several layers. It was easy to identify it as Rosie’s heartbeat. At first it was a bit fast, showing the child’s distress, and then slowing down as her sobs did.

“Da. Da!” She babbled, more calm now. Her heart had stabilised, beating sound and softly. She stayed silent for a bit, then tried again.

“Da?” There was no answer this time either, so she must have turned to Mycroft because John heard her move and hit something soft (probably Mycroft’s chest or arm), demanding attention.

“Bib. Bib!” Mycroft made a questioning sound, and John could almost see him raise an eyebrow.

“Bib? Bib, da?”

“Busy. I think it’s time for Da to feed”, Mycroft said with a deep sniff.

“Welcome, John.”

He was startled, wondering if there were cameras inside the room. Was Mycroft spying on him?

“There are cameras, indeed. But they are off, so don’t panic. I hope you are having a smooth transition. Sherlock is almost there, so I recommend you to turn off the monitor. I’m taking your daughter to the kitchen to prepare some of her formula, and it would be advisable for you to be fully… focused on feeding. No interruptions.”

John snorted. As if he were some kind of baby.

 _Well, for them I_ am _a baby, aren’t I? Bollocks._

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get used to it pretty fast. Meanwhile, Rosamund is in good hands. If it is reassuring, this is the safest place on earth. I made sure of it”.

Well. It _was_ a bit relaxing. He knew in his heart a man like Mycroft Holmes was honest and true when he said things like that.

The sound on the other side of the baby monitor cut off, and John was left alone and silent in the room again, for almost a whole minute.

When the door of the safe room opened, Sherlock came in effortlessly dragging a seemingly unconscious human behind him. He tossed it inside as if it was a lifeless rag doll, before closing the door again and knocking three times on it. John heard the strong, metallic clang of engines turning, and all he could think about was how that door had a big ass lock.

John gulped. The sweet smell of something was slowly filling the air and he felt immediately hungry, ravenous. It reminded him of Afghanistan and the days when his patrol had to wait at the outpost for supplies from base camp. Days when water was the only thing they had until food arrived and, starving as they were, they still knew they had to ration. This moment was the same, more or less frustrated hunger entwined with gluttony.

His mouth was watering already. But God help him, he refused to admit it.

The person on the floor had his head covered with a black bag and his hands tied firmly to his back with a lace. The figure (a man most likely, based on the general body features) was whimpering softly, murmuring nonsense. There was something oddly familiar about him, but John couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He hoped the guy was not someone they knew. Sherlock wouldn’t do that, right?

“Sherlock” he said, throat suddenly dry. “Do I really need to kill him? Can’t I just take _a lot_ and... Look, I’m not sure I want to murder someone in cold blood...”

His words sounded weak, even to his own ears. He didn’t want to murder anybody. But he was so _hungry_.

“This is no innocent, John. I don’t think you’ll mind.”

He was about to lecture his friend about it, when Sherlock took the black sackcloth bag off the man’s head.

 

Sherlock saw reason abandon John’s face as he recognized the face of the man on the floor, and he couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased about it.

The suspect on the floor was still getting rid of the effects of the drugs Mycroft’s men had injected him with, the strong odour of chemicals beginning to fade away from his blood. Being a thirsty newborn, John would have no problem drinking contaminated blood. His change hormones were still active and would take care of any foreign bodies inside the ingested fluids.

“He’s the guy” John said, voice dry.

He was now looking at him like a hungry man would look at a piece of steak (granted, one that almost succeeded at killing them) after being hungry for months.

“Yes.”

John licked his lower lip slowly, deliberating.

“You took him from the alley.”

There was no need to answer. John’s train of thought seemed to be rather slow at the moment, but maybe the only thing he was looking for was reassurance.

“Won’t Lestrade come asking for him? He’s not a complete idiot, you know.”

Sherlock smiled.

“My dear John. You forget we have the British government on our side.”

They remained silent a bit longer, John’s body tense with the effort of remaining still, hands tightly clenched in fists.

“How do I...?”

A wave of warmth passed through Sherlock, affection swallowing him whole. His John. Strong, confident, military John was scared but awaiting instructions. He had left the ultimate command in Sherlock’s hands, sure he would make the best choice because he could read his lover’s barely restrained need to kill and destroy. John’s emotions were out of control, a storm raging inside his head. And John knew better than to let them out unleashed.

“Instinct. Just let go.”

He heard the bones in John’s jaw creak as he pressed them together with supernatural force. A vein at his temple made itself visible. Sherlock could read the hunger slowly taking over John. Soon, he would have no say in this.

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“John” Sherlock called, his voice soft. His lover’s eyes had never moved from the dizzy man on the floor, fixed there as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

He called again, still softly, and waited. Seconds later he saw John turn, his eyes changing focus and piercing his own. The pupils were contracted, capillaries around the ocular globes making themselves visible. His skin was losing the pinkish shade that had coloured his cheeks and lips when Sherlock left the room that morning. It was too soon for it to happen, but Sherlock was unsurprised by how fast his blood was running out inside of his veins. The wound had been deep and nasty, and John had simply lost too much blood. A vampire’s change could only do so much.

“Do you trust me?”

John’s fists opened and closed a couple of times, knuckles white. He blinked once, slowly, and then nodded once. Short and efficient.

Sherlock lowed himself, face to face to the man on the floor. He gave a brusque pull, hauling him up from the floor till he rested on his knees. It had been a while since he had taken any blood directly from a human, and even longer since he had taken any kind of chemical-compromised blood. He was sure he was going to get high because of this. John’s system might be able to purge and process the blood without side effects, but his couldn’t.

Still, a high was worth it if it lead to this, to John as alive as he could be, with him.

Forever.

Sherlock growled and ripped the smelly t-shirt from the man’s neck, hearing his whimpers and cries of confusion.

“Told you I didn’t need a knife.”

Before this moment, given more time and boredom, he might have fallen into giving the man a chit-chat before the feeding started, just to have a little fun. But he couldn’t find any interest in him to do so now. His fangs were elongating, coming out of their covers, and he felt the sharp points pressing against the tender inner skin of his lower lip. As much as he wanted to scare the shit out of this man, to torture him till he was a mess and only after proceeding to feed, John’s hunger was a bit of a pressing agenda.

So Sherlock bit down right on the man’s carotid, taking a hard suck. He felt the blood fill his mouth, spicy and hot, and he muffled a groan against the man’s skin. The suspect screamed, suddenly very awake, and realising he was in a very real, very present danger.

Growling, Sherlock moved his hands to grab the man’s arms and pin him down, bothered by the interruption. His fangs sunk deeper, cutting through the hard, tense muscles. Sternocleidomastoid, scalene, then the superficial cervical fascia and cut edge. All of it felt like butter under his strong jaws. He pressed harder, the grip he had on the suspect’s neck firmer as he gulped again, another wave of warmth filling his mouth, coating his tongue.

Sherlock felt dizzy as he retreated, lips crimson red and shiny under the cold lights of the safe room. His eyes were dark pools, the irises dilated, as if trying to devour all possible shades of blue. It was a sight to behold.

“Come.”

The dark sweetness of his voice caressed John’s ears and enticed him to move. Sherlock saw the exact moment when the human in John let go of the powerful, marvellous beast lying dormant underneath. It took only half a second to have him on his knees, a needy, feral expression on his face. Sherlock tossed the man away, ignoring the yelp from the other side of the room as the body hit the wall forcefully.

John was looking at the red covering his lips, and Sherlock raised his hand to catch the back of his neck, softly guiding the new vampire’s mouth to his own.

It was tentative at first, an exploratory tongue teasing clean, dry lips, asking for permission. He heard a low growl, deep from John’s belly, and felt the set of fangs extend past their covers as John pressed against him and deepened their kiss, searching greedily for Sherlock’s tongue with his own. John’s strong hands grabbed his forearms with inhuman force. Sherlock moaned, teasing John’s fangs with the tip of his tongue, making sure he covered them with the criminal’s blood, and then reached for the glands behind them, giving tiny flicks over the sensitive skin, feeling them fatten and swell under his attentions. John growled again, sending a vibration through his neck that made Sherlock’s skin tingle, getting goosebumps all over.

Grabbing John’s head and the hair at his nape and pulling back to separate from him was the most difficult thing Sherlock had done in a very, _very_ long time. Hard as he was, the only thing he really wanted to do was turn John around, pin his back to the nearest wall, and mount him till he was sore. And as vampire’s anatomy goes, that would take a while.

“ _Later_ ” he growled. John, lost in a cloud of lust and hunger, growled back, frustrated and furious. His eyes were black pools, dark and deep as the ocean.

“Go feed, John.”

The newborn vanished from his side to reappear where the suspect was trying to get to his feet, screaming and crying, begging for mercy.

“You were dead!” The man screamed, writhing like a worm. “I stabbed you! I killed you!”

“You did.”

Sherlock watched, as the first effects of dizziness from the contaminated blood appeared. His limbs felt light and his head felt like flying. But he knew it was only a matter of time before his body cleaned the substances our and disposed of them. Meanwhile, he stood there, observinging in fascination and excitement as John took what he needed.

The good thing about newborns was the haze of bloodlust that took control once they tasted fresh human blood for the first time. Killing was not easy for some, but once the fever rose, there was no morality or rational thinking. Only need.

Of course, bloodlust should be controlled, and newborns mastered restraint before being allowed to go out to the world. At least the ones with sires responsible enough to care about secrecy and decency did. The ecstasy and high experienced once the last drop of blood was out of a body was addictive and hard to quit. Many had failed to master themselves because of constantly seeking that high, that soaring feeling, once again.

He was ready to help John control it if necessary.

On the other side of the room, John grabbed the whimpering man by his neck, raising him from the floor and pinning him to the wall. The man’s face was a mess of drool and tears, the incarnation of fear itself.

Sherlock saw how the strong muscles of John’s arm worked and tensed as he kept the human still, and how his back contracted when, fast as lightning, he bit down right over the marks Sherlock had left for him.

The animalistic sound of pleasure echoed through the room and a shiver ran down Sherlock’s body. He pressed his mouth closed, jaw rigid, and felt his cock fill and harden. It was taking every ounce of self control he had not to take himself in hand and fuck his fist in time with John’s swallows till he came. He knew it was not the moment for that, and it might cause John a distraction when they could not afford any. So he kept himself still, hands fisted against his thighs, and watched John drink.

Unsatisfied with the current angle, or maybe seeking something to chew on, John abruptly changed the side of the neck he was drinking from, bitting down his own way to reach the blood.

He listened as the screams lowered in volume till they became meaningless begging and finally there was nothing to hear but the weak sound of a heartbeat, slowly dying. John kept sucking, gluttonously, as the smell of blood faded as well.

It took only a couple of minutes more till John took a step backwards, sighing as he moved away from the now dead man, pinned to the wall. The body fell heavily to the floor at John’s feet, eyes closed and throat marked by bloody rivers and tears. Dark marks where John’s hand and fingers had held him still, now fading to an ugly yellow.

Sherlock stood still, smelling nothing other than John and fresh blood, yet fearful that interruption might cause him disturbance. The silence was absolute.

He was about to move, concerned, when at last John turned to look at him. His pupils were back to normal, his eyes relaxed and shining with a light that hadn’t been there before. There was a bit of blood trailing down the corners of his lips and across his chin, and dark splatters on the fabric of his sweater. John’s mouth was glossy, crimson coloured, and Sherlock couldn’t look away from how his tongue lapped at his lower lip in an attempt to clean the mess.

“Well”, he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “He did deserve it.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Absolutely.”

John walked slowly to him, found Sherlock’s and and squeezed it gently. Sherlock took a tissue from the desk beside them, and carefully cleaned the blood from his face, mindful of not leaving a drop. When he finished, John caressed his face with his free hand. His thumb moving lovingly over his cheekbone, before guiding him against his, mouth seeking Sherlock’s.

The kiss was tender, sweeter than the last one had been. Any hurry or lust lost the moment John’s hunger had been satisfied. Sherlock couldn’t resist taking a taste of blood form John’s lips and tongue, finding a residual, honey like taste of John’s venom. He shivered, discovering the flavour difference between John’s and his own very telling. While he was acid and almost liquid, John was luscious and thick.

“You were magnificent, John”, Sherlock muttered, his voice low and reverent. He leaned back to look his lover in the eyes, adoringly. “You looked as if you were born for this.”

John chuckled, shrugging.

“I was a soldier, remember?”

“Somehow, I doubt in the army they train you in how to suck blood.”

John smiled, his face glowing with mischief.

“You learn to suck other things, though. As extracurriculars.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh, kissing John again. The joy of having him back, of having him there, alive and like him was nearly too much. He felt high, but if it was from John himself or the sedative-contaminated blood still being purged on his system, he had no way of knowing.

“Well, soldier. You might be a vampire now, but there are things you have to learn before you can get back out into the world, like how not to scare our human friends shitless. Mrs. Hudson is pretty liberal, but even she has a limit.”

Said vampire sighed dramatically.

“Guess I’ll have to learn the ways of the night.”

Sherlock gave him one last peck on the lips before pulling away and offering him the new set of clean, blood free clothing.

“First things first. The messy part is over, so get rid of those terrible things before I find another lover. You being a newborn vampire does not excuse you for being filthy.”

John took the clothes, chuckling again.

“Yes, sir.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Next chapter will be the last... but only for this part of the story!
> 
> Our Baker Street vamps will come back, as this is becoming a series!
> 
> The Blood of Our Kind will be a series composed by several, incoming short stories about our boys lives as vampires in Baker Street, solving crimes, being BAMF, raising a child, and all I can possibly think about. Plot for the next three one-shots coming after the end of this are being finished, and as soon as I hit the last "Post Without Review", I'll put myself to work.
> 
> I hope I can post the last chapter soon!


	5. The blood of our kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end of this, my dudes!
> 
> Thanks again to Ami, wondeful lovely beta. A thousand blessings for you.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the reading, and take a look at end notes for a surprise!

The Holmes manor was different that what he had expected. Locked in that small chamber, John had imagined a modern place, full of technology and gadgets of all kinds. What he found instead was a strange yet tasteful combo of very different elements. There was furniture that looked older than he was right next to IKEA pieces and what seemed to be expensive designer chairs and lamps. The mirrors were all classic baroque. Some of the glass had become opaque and almost useless, only vague shapes and colours reflected back.

The high ceilings were  naked grey stone, as were the floors. The latter covered by the occasional rug. It had a similar vibe to the old Scottish castles of the North. He was unsurprised to see that even though most of the lights were electric (including the oldest looking ones), there were some oil and  gas powered ones, too. John couldn’t resist trying to .turn one on.

Large windows in the living-room showed a vast field exterior  with not a single sign of other houses in the vicinity which actually made sense. If this was a place for retreat and protection, it was reasonable to assume they would have tried to avoid being surrounded by humans or other threats. Whether they had accomplished this out of sheer luck or by purchasing an obscene amount of parcels, he didn’t know. But John would’ve put all his money on Mycroft owning a big ass estate without blinking twice.

“We don’t have any neighbours, if that’s what’s bothering you. Through  the years, both Mycroft and I have managed to secure a fair piece of land. Part of the valley belongs to us, and so does the forest you can see behind the manor,” Sherlock answered, mind-reading him once again.

John whistled, impressed but not surprised. “Bet you have more money than bloody England.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Perks of being immortal and good at predicting the economy,” he said, a smirk on his face. “Plus, I was terribly rich during my pirate days. Most of the gold was later invested in estates and properties around the world. I might not be as obsessed with money as my brother, but I’m no fool. I like nice things.”

“Wait.” John stopped dead in his tracks, perplexed. “You ‘got terribly rich during your pirate days’?”

Sherlock smirked, the kind of playful, full-of-himself smile only John got to see, especially after he had been very clever or done something specifically to impress John.

“Yes. But don’t try to distract me. You’ve got some training to do.”

Before John could complain, he was distracted by the shrieking sound of an old door opening. To John, it looked like a basement entrance.

He followed Sherlock down,  his opinions about Pirate Sherlock  pushed away by curiosity. The walls were humid, made of old, grey stone shining with water in some places. It smelled like a river. He heard... running water? Could it be?

“We shall start with some strength exercises just to test what you can do. Then speed, reflexes, and later I’ll explain the few rules our kind is subject to”, Sherlock said from the bottom of the stairs. John ducked his head to pass under the last stone arch of the stairs only to find himself in what seemed to be the biggest, most batman-like cave he had ever seen.

The place was illuminated by LED stripes falling across the irregular stone walls, which had activated once they stepped into the cave. The cold, white light shone over the stone floors.

There were a few gym machines and weight discs piled on one side of the room. John could also see a medium sized grey mat with several shelves around it holding almost any kind of weapon he could imagine.

“Mycroft decided to adapt the basement cave and turn it into a training area after another vampire almost managed to kill his bodyguards in the forties. Even though vampires can’t grow any extra musculature or strength by training, werewolves absolutely can. My brother thought they should have a place to get fit if they needed to.”

John frowned.

“Another vampire attacked his bodyguards?”

Sherlock nodded.

“He was on a diplomatic trip, coming back from Paris. A rough newborn decided it was a good idea to start a fight with two werewolves just to get to Mycroft. We suspect he was out of control. Had no sire, no clan, and the werewolves somehow entered what he deemed as his territory,” Sherlock explained.

“In regular circumstances, my brother is more than capable of defending himself. But that week had been restless, and he hadn’t had any time to feed, so he was not strong enough to fight. The vampire came out of nowhere and attacked them all with no explanation. He got hurt badly, but the two guards almost died.”

Amazed incredulity installed itself in John’s stomach, twisting his guts.

“Could he? Have died then?” he asked, careful to sound less curious than he felt. It was Sherlock’s brother, after all.

“Possibly. If the newborn had had the time and inclination to burn his remains. There are few things that can permanently kill vampires, you see. Almost anything brings us back with enough time and blood. We have  always been curious about that and until recently, we’d only found three effective ways to finish our kind: either burn us to ashes and scatter the remains or chop off our head and burn it. Without a way to provide blood to the body, it slowly rots and dies. It’s way slower than a human’s decomposition, but still. And then, there is werewolf saliva. The enzyme that changes humans is poisonous to us, and eventually lethal. It works the other way round, too. Inject a wolf with enough venom and it will die.”

“So, no fire. Got it.”

A sound of distaste and bother came from Sherlock.

“It’s not just fire that burns. Acids or lime would also do the trick. Fire is just the most popular method because of its  easier access.”

His tone sounded bored already, more like the Sherlock John was accustomed to. It made him smile, taking with it a bit of the dark feeling that had installed itself inside him since their conversation took a dark path. He saw Sherlock twist around for a second at the other side of the room, and then something dark flew directly toward his stomach. Out of instinct, he flinched and caught the object with one hand, noticing its  pressure and weight. It was no heavier than one of Rosie’s toys to him, even for the size of it.

“What the fuck!”

John looked at the object he was holding. It was one of the weight discs. It was thick and cold but  the only indication that it was indeed, real, were the numbers and brand name carved on it.

Sherlock’s eyes were on him, pupils dilated and lips parted. It made his insides squirm with want and need. The desire he had felt kissing Sherlock upon waking was back, crawling through the lower part of his belly like a dark promise.

“John. You’re _strong_.”

Sherlock’s voice was like honey, deep and seductive, a panther’s purr. He sounded so delighted, even surprised .

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” John answered back, feeling nothing near offence. He was mostly flattered. It’s wasn’t often one  made Sherlock Holmes horny like a teenager from only catching things in midair. John was going to enjoy every second of it.

“So. I’m quite strong now. Aren’t you?”

Sherlock, who had been looking at John’s arms with delight and abandon, began to let his eyes wander over the rest of John’s body. It was clear to him which parts of his thorough examination became

intense: his forearms, biceps, and legs, with extra special attention being paid to his hands and inner thighs. John had to admit, it was beginning to look like any second Sherlock was going to jump him and fuck him right there over the nearest workout machine. And by the looks of it, it might be the best sex of his life. He felt his suddenly interested cock give a tiny pulse, , and he shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying to find a place to put down the weight disc as a distraction.

“I’m strong. But not like _that_. A weight that heavy would have done some major damage, like a heavy stone to a human’s body. I was confident of my estimation of your physical status considering your human potential,” Sherlock explained, finally guiding his eyes back to John’s. He held his arm in his direction, waiting for John to toss him the weight. Sherlock caught it in the air, both arms showing the muscles straining  under his shirt.

“Well, that’s impressive.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes  as he put the weight back gently in the designated spot. John frowned, registering for the first time the inhuman abilities Sherlock, _his Sherlock_ , was showing. How effortlessly he had seemed to carry that!

“Sherlock, how strong are you? Really.”

The detective smiled.

“Not as strong as you are, I can assure you.”

“Ok, let’s say I believe you. Can you lift... a car?”

“A _car_ _?_ Why would I want to lift a bloody car?” Now Sherlock looked annoyed. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“ _Yes_. I can lift a car. To a certain extent. _No._ I can’t lift it over my head. Not with one hand, much less with two. _Yes_ , I might be able to raise it a few inches from the ground, provided no one was looking and the car was empty. But I wouldn’t last long. Do you also want to know if I can lift a bus? We can test all kinds of vehicles. A motorcycle should be easy enough to grab and throw against...”

“Ok! I got it! No need to be so bothered by it. Jesus”.

John passed a hand through his hair, feeling the pressure of his fingers against his scalp, nails scratching as they went. A sudden thought crossed his mind. “Why did you...? You... All this time. You were holding back.”

Sherlock sighed, and it sounded like defeat.

“You don’t know how breakable you are... Were. Bones and flesh are so tender. I learned, over the years, where I could touch without causing lasting damage. How much strength to use when holding someone’s hand. The first time I hugged someone human after being turned  I almost broke her ribs. It took me some time to be able to establish a ratio between my strength as a vampire and a human’s. Mycroft and I spent years working on ways to pass as normal men, to act and behave as humans do. Until then, it was mostly a nightmare to touch anyone.”

John blinked. Overwhelmed by the information, he looked down at his own hands as if they held all the answers to the unspoken questions currently flooding his head in no order whatsoever. Looking at the blue veins at his wrists, he frowned.

“I took your pulse”.

He sounded reflective, more like muttering to himself. “I took your pulse on more than one occasion. I saw you breathe. You are breathing now. How? How did you fake a pulse? Was it a mind trick?”

The detective made a face, trying to find the best way to explain something he wasn’t quite sure about himself. John had seen that expression only a few times, yet he would recognise it anytime and any place.

“It’s a long story for another day. For now, all I can say is that it’s a sort of borrowed camouflage technique from other supernatural beings.”

“So, it’s magic.”

“It’s _science_ ,” Sherlock shot back, trying to look pissed, but suppressing a smile. “Unknown science is called magic because idiots can’t be bothered to understand how it works.”

John smiled back, a wide grin spreading across his lips.

He pulled off his new sweater, throwing it over his head, and flexed his naked arms to stretch the muscles. The weird feeling of numbness he had felt upon waking, although it was already disappearing, was still making itself known. It was a  sensation between pain and stiffness, similar to having sore muscles. . Stretching made his body activate.

If Sherlock wanted to test his abilities, well... a bit of exercise never hurt anyone.Or so he told himself. Sherlock’s delighted look had nothing to do with it, of course.

“Well, Mr. Science. Weren’t you going to test me or something?”

 

* * *

 

It was well past midday when they got out of the basement. Red light filtered through the curtains, creating a warm atmosphere around them. A fire had been lit, but no one was in sight and heard no sounds around the manor indicating otherwise.

The training session had been good. It was stimulating and surprisingly fun. Sherlock had given him a few strength tests to see how far he could go and then he monitored his speed by making him run on a treadmill. In the end, they established that John was proportional in strength and speed  to how he had been as a human. His reflexes were agile but Sherlock, with his long legs, could outrun him without much effort.

Sherlock had explained more details about his new life as a vampire. Sun would not damage him, nor were sacred ground or wood especially harmful. He could go weeks without blood but he would get slow and hungry. Anything able to destroy his brain permanently, keeping him unable to feed until his body rotted, was enough to kill him for good. They talked about many things, yet Sherlock’s past remained a mystery.

They sat at the sofa in front of the fireplace, cuddled together. Sherlock was curled on John’s lap, his long legs all over the place. John was massaging Sherlock’s skull gently with his fingers, curling them around his locks of soft raven hair. It was so soothing to hear the detective’s slow breathing. He smelled of a mixture of tobacco, ash, and a faint trace of sweat. It was something familiar to John. Something that not only hadn’t changed, but had intensified. His enhanced senses now allowed him to distinguish even more details, and he discovered he could detect scent trails now. Rosie would have a hard time in the future playing hide and seek.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

With his eyes fixed on the flames, he looked sleepy and tired. Younger. His muscles were soft and relaxed. John pulled him closer and dropped a kiss on the top of his head, burying his nose into the curls.

“How old are you?”

He felt it the moment Sherlock’s lungs filled with air, readying him to give an answer.

“My estimation would be that I was born in the late sixteenth century. Mycroft was born years before me so he’s clearly older than I am, but we are unsure exactly how much older. Back then, calendars had no particular relevance for peasants. I think I was somewhere between thirty and thirty-three when I was turned.”

His tone was neutral, as if he couldn’t care less. John was not as surprised as he felt he should be.

“So. Five hundred years? Does that make you young?” he teased, a smile slowly forming at his lips. “What you told me that night, back at the restaurant. Was it true? Are you French?”

“ _Oui. Maman_  was from Orsay, as were we. Father was a Londoner. I didn’t lie. I only omitted certain details.”

John smiled, imagining a small French kid with wild black curls running up and down an old ship, climbing up all the places a kid shouldn’t really climb. He could almost picture Mycroft running after him. It was a lovely sight. He wished there had been pictures from those times. Last Christmas, back at Sherlock’s parents’ house he hadn’t seen any baby pics…

“Wait, Sherlock. Are your parents vampires, too?”

“No.”

Sherlock pressed against him, closing his eyes. There was something nostalgic and sad in his voice when he spoke again.

“Our parents died, a long time ago. Father died first, when Mycroft left from Sussex to London wishing to become a tailor’s apprentice. He was one of the first to die from Tuberculosis. Mummy followed several years later.”

John snuggled him closer.

“I’m sorry.”

“All lives end. It was sad. But it was going to happen either way.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t miss them”, John muttered against his curls, hoping to provide some comfort. “No matter how many years have passed, they were your parents. It’s fine to feel sad about it.”

One of Sherlock’s hands found his, and he entangled their fingers, giving John a light squeeze.

It was incredible how much and how well he had gotten to know his detective- how they had learned to communicate without words.

“The people you saw at Christmas are fae. Forests spirits. They helped me once, when I was still young and reckless. Since then, they’ve been acting as our parents. They are linked to the forest near the house and will continue living as long as the forest does. We secured a great part of the land to prevent its destruction.”

“Oh.”

John’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. His arms were tight and firm around Sherlock. Whether to offer comfort, simply keep him close, or to ground him to the present while his mind was so far away, he wasn’t sure. The detective was quiet again now and John felt as if he had opened a memory box he should have left alone.

“You were wondering about what I said before, about my pirate days,” Sherlock said, his voice suddenly very loud in the room.

John arched an eyebrow, humming in approval. “Were you really a pirate?”

The man chuckled.

“Oh, _yes_. And I was extremely good at it.”

It was John’s turn to laugh then, and he felt the dark, heavy atmosphere that had descended upon them slowly fade away.

“I bet you were very good at cleaning the decks and being infuriating,” John teased. Sherlock turned, his belly pressing down onto John’s lap, propping his chin against his chest. He looked just like a mischievous kid.

“John Hamish Watson. I was the best and most fearsome pirate the Atlantic Ocean has known. I have never, not even once, cleaned a deck. You, on the other hand... would have made quite an adequate cabin boy.”

John saw how Sherlock’s pupils dilated slightly at the mention of John as a cabin boy. He felt something warm pool low in his belly, and all the desire that had burned inside of him since the morning was suddenly washing over him again.

“ _Your_  cabin boy? Serving you lunch, helping you dress? Working around the ship half naked, covered in sweat?”

He could hear Sherlock nearly purring. “Oh, John. You’d look delicious. Had you been on my ship, I would have promoted you to be my Quartermaster. You would’ve been so good, so disciplined. I can only imagine how skilled you’d be with a sword. I would have looted for you the best arms, the finest fabrics. I would have covered you in bloody gold. Everyone would have known about the fearsome John Watson. _The Inquisitor_ would have been the most revered ship on the ocean.”

Sherlock voice was dreamy, eyes looking toward him without focus, as if he was watching something far away. There was such a reverent tone in his words. John felt transported to a place and a time he hadn’t ever had the chance to live in and yet he could picture it now quite vividly.

“Imagine fighting side by side with me. Taking a ship. Commanding the men. Battle after battle and then coming back to our cabin to stitch each other up and get clean. Such a glorious sight you’d be,” Sherlock mused, almost sad. “Of course, they weren’t the best of times. Plenty of circumstances could have ended us. But pirate societies were acceptant and liberal. We would have been able to be together without scrutiny. Maybe we would’ve bought ourselves an island in the Caribbean to settle down with our part of the treasures we’d found over the years. The good parts of pirate life were the best parts.”

John smiled tenderly, pressing a kiss to his head. Sherlock blinked, coming back from were he had drifted away, and bowed his head to kiss John back, lips ghosting over the scar on his shoulder hidden beneath his shirt.

“Were you human back then?”

Sherlock rested his cheek against John’s chest and placed his left hand over his belly, fingers tracing random patterns.

“I was. Right until a Spanish vessel ambushed us. We were near the Portuguese coast, low on supplies and taking rest. By the time we got the canons and the men ready to answer, _The Inquisitor_ was being blown up. The ship went down too quickly. Another pirate ship nearby came to offer support but by the time  they sank the attacking vessel, our ship was already destroyed and on its way down beneath the water. I can’t recall much except sinking under while my lungs burned for air, and the pain of a piece of wood lodged deep into my stomach. The next thing I remember was  the heat of the sun, sand everywhere, and a thirst I couldn’t explain. I killed all three of the vessel’s sailors that managed to survive and swim to the same islet where I rose. I fed from them until they died.”

“You... drowned?”

“Yes.”

John frowned in confusion.

“Then who... who changed you? They must have pulled you out of the water?”

Sherlock sighed.

“I’ve been considering this for centuries. And I can’t think of a single member of my crew who could have been a vampire at that time. Plus the fact that nobody showed up when I rose is revealing... All I can conclude is that my change must have been an accident. Maybe the vampire who sired me was trying to feed because they were badly injured in the fight. Perhaps something made them stop, and the venom was already in my system. As I drowned, the change process was triggered and by the time the current took me to shore, I was already a vampire.”

“That seems... oddly coincidental.”

“I know. The other option is the vampire who changed me could have fled somehow. They could have taken me out to the shore, changed me there, and then somehow they managed to disappear leaving three healthy humans behind. Not bothering to check if I made it.”

John made an affirmative sound, agreeing that the latter sounded even more strange. Maybe all of it had only been a twisted situation. Maybe Sherlock had just been extremely, stupidly lucky. He profoundly disliked thinking there was a very real chance of him never meeting Sherlock. And yet there was nothing he could have done about it. He silently thanked whatever gracious deity had considered them worthy of a chance of being together.

“How did you got out of the islet?” John asked, changing the subject.

“I swam.”

John coughed.

“You swam. _Swam_. To the coast.”

“John,” Sherlock said slowly. “I was already a vampire. A handful of kilometres were not enough to stop me. And it was better to try to swim somewhere than wait on the islet forever. I was full of human blood, had the strength of a newborn.”

“Brilliant.”

He saw how Sherlock’s cheeks turned subtly pink, his face pleased. Sherlock curled around him, burying his nose into his armpit, taking a deep breath.

“What about Mycroft? Was he a pirate, too?”

John heard the muffled sound of a laugh against his arm.

“Can you even imagine my brother as a pirate? Oh, no. He wasn’t. He became a very good tailor in  London. One of the best. He was changed when one of his customers, an influential man, got too attached to him. He saw his wasted potential, and ended up deciding it was best to show Mycroft what he was missing. It turned out Mycroft was not very enthusiastic about it. Still, his sire turned him anyway, and my brother ended up killing him when he changed.”

“Serves him right. What a jerk,” John said, feeling sorry for Mycroft. He couldn’t imagine how awful that must have been. Being dragged out of a good, honest life for no other reason than the selfishness of others.

“What did he do?”

“He tried to keep his store, but he found it hard to get regular blood supplies. He wasn’t skilled enough to hunt without being discovered, so he decided to leave his old life behind and move to Paris to start anew as another man. He found himself caught up in the middle of the revolution,” Sherlock smiled, as he was enjoying an inside joke.

“When I found him, several years later, he had changed his name, his hair, and his position. He’d made friends with the right people, and warned me about not going anywhere near the guillotines.”

“Oh, my God. Mycroft got beheaded, didn’t he?”

Sherlock looked at him, a grin on his face, and bit softly at John’s chest.

“If you want to see something fun, just ask him about Notre Dame. Hilarious. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Night fell. John only noticed the passage of time because the light outside had changed again, and because he heard the sound of the gravel outside crunching underneath the tyres of a car. A steady thump accompanied it, and he rose carefully from the sofa, trying to get a good sight of the door.

“They’re back.”

John’s stomach contracted. He had been perfectly calm all day. The evening had been a wonderful time, cuddling Sherlock on  the sofa by the flames. They had been talking almost nonstop about Sherlock’s past. Now that there was no need to hide anything, John was eager to know everything Sherlock had lived to see, everything he’d gotten to experience.

He had been slightly concerned at first that this new information about his past experiences would make him wary of Sherlock. Maybe he’d find out something he wouldn’t like. Maybe he would press an issue that Sherlock would rather have kept secret or just private. Maybe this was going to be the end for them?

But every new detail he learned was an added piece to his image of Sherlock. And instead of making him seem more unattainable, it had made him more human. He had made his fair share of mistakes, had chosen bad decisions, and had done things he regretted. They’d talked about past loves and regrets, but especially about the good things, because there would be plenty of time to wander through them all, and now was not the moment to dwell over sad affairs.

They didn’t cover it all. However, John sensed it was not due to an avoidance of the truth, but simply a matter of timing. There was more to hear about Sherlock’s past, but that was fine. He knew when the moment came, he would get the answers he craved. For example, Sherlock had been,  quite succinct about the subject of past lovers and his parents. John was alright with that. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock loved him and loved Rosie, and had no plans for changing that in the foreseeable future. Whatever had happened before was in the past. And he’d rather know Sherlock had had someone by his side, than have him be alone. He was not worried about hypothetical competitors.

John felt Sherlock entwining his fingers with his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. He felt his muscles, previously tense, relax at his touch.

“I love you”, Sherlock whispered,  softly kissing his neck, forehead leaning against his temple. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I love you, too."

John kissed Sherlock’s knuckles before standing up and helping him do the same. By the time they were both on their feet, Mycroft crossed through the door with an excited Rosie in his arms. The child got rapidly excited when she saw John and Sherlock, almost throwing herself out of Mycroft’s safe embrace in an effort to reach them. John took her into his arms, burying his nose into her hair, breathing her in, so happy to see her alive and well. He registered the firm grip of Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing once in a welcoming gesture. John bowed his head in acceptance, grinning like an idiot.

“Welcome to the family, Dr. Watson. Glad to see you on your feet again.”

Sherlock, who had been grinning back while patiently waiting his turn, laughed softly and began making all sorts of silly noises and sounds, asking Rosie about her day out and kissing her cheek with due ceremony (the exact way he knew would make her explode into contagious baby giggles).

It was the nicest of moments, and John would find himself visiting this memory again from time to time, in the future. Whenever he had doubts, whenever he missed them, whenever he felt like something wasn’t enough.

They had eternity ahead. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> As you might have noticed, this is the end of this fic... but not of the story!
> 
> This vampire AU is going to evolve into a Series. The Blood of Our Kind series. Next work coming is a one-shot. I have already a few adds scheduled. OFC, you can always ask for things you want to see. I promise I'll take every one of them into consideration!
> 
> So this is not a goodbye, but a 'see you later'. For now, I'm going to shamelessly self promote my current angel!lock, Celestial Tides. As soon as I finish with it, I'll retake the vampires ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'll see yall very soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!  
> Hope you're enjoying the reading. If you wanna know more about this stories or you're just curious, here you have my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/herondale_mira) and also my [Tumblr](http://consultingpacha.tumblr.com).  
> Don't hesitate contacting me for anything. I don't bite.  
> Not too much, at least.  
> Thank you for your time!  
> MH


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